The Magic of Deduction
by AlexisJames92
Summary: His first remembered thought was "Harry? How dull." Reincarnation story. Harry Potter is nothing like what the wizarding world thought he would be. Manipulative!Dumbledore. False Prophecy. Johnlock. Severitus. Now starting second year, my take on the Chamber of Secrets. "A Study in Identity"
1. Rebirth

**Hello All! As you can see I'm back from vacation xD I know I should probably be working on the four other fics I've neglected ever since my trip, but this plot bunny football tackled me as I was walking my little sister through the park. It threatened me with bodily harm if I didn't write him out. Hope you enjoy!**

 **~James**

His first remembered thought was "Harry? How dull."

William Sherlock Scott Holmes was dead, and had been dead for nearly two weeks now. Harry James Potter, however, was nearly two weeks old. Harry was a strange child, he never cried for one. He scarcely ate, for another, worrying his parent's to no end. He didn't sleep much, despite not crying. He simply lay there on his back, muttering nonsense to himself with a scowl on his face.

Harry James Potter. All three of those names were so unbearably boring. Sherlock decided right then that he would never allow himself to be known as "Harry Potter", and so whenever anyone called him by name he protested with a loud shriek. (Sherlock was smart enough to know that if he simply started talking, as much as he wanted to, he'd be labeled as a freak and sent to be experimented on.)

However, despite how boring his name was, his life was far from it. As far as he could gather, they were in the middle of a war. And not just any war, a magical one. His parents (James and Lily Potter) were soldiers in it, but were forced into hiding for some unknown reason. The man they were fighting against was a 'monster' they called Voldemort (and who others stupidly called You-Know-Who) who wanted to kill 'muggles'. 'Muggles' were apparently what Sherlock had been in his first life.

When his name had actually been 'Sherlock'.

He was a wizard, now, however. As was his father, though his mother was a witch. They used all sorts of spells all around the house, and Sherlock committed each one to memory for when he'd get a wand of his own. However, Sherlock deduced that most magic was simply a –matter of will, seeing as how James would unconsciously flick his wand to stop things from falling to the floor and breaking when "Uncle Paddy" knocked things over. And how Lily just wiggled hers and colorful bubbles exploded from it.

Life was good, interesting and comfortable. It would have been perfect if not for one thing…John was gone.

Gone. Sherlock had no idea if John had actually died the same time as Sherlock, or if he was still in a hospital somewhere recovering. He did know and understand, though, that it was highly unlikely he and his only friend would ever meet again. Sherlock's tiny, newborn chest ached at this thought. And James was startled, though somewhat relieved, when his infant son started crying for the first time in his short life.

***1047***

Ronald Bilius Weasley was an odd child. Nobody doubted it. When he was first born, all he would do was cry and cry. It was hard to get him to stop crying long enough to feed him. And as soon as he was done, he'd cry some more. It wasn't the normal type of crying that babies did. Ron sobbed, great fat tears rolling down his chubby cheeks, his chest heaving and his little hands fisted over his heart, as though his heart was breaking. He didn't make the babbling noises that his older brothers had when they were small. When he was around two years old, he simply started saying simple words like "hungry" or "tea" or "bored". Then he'd giggle softly, before his eyes would go all distant again.

Then there was his hair. While all of the Weasleys, past and present, had been fiery redheads, Ron wasn't. He had golden blonde hair. Furthermore, he lacked the freckles that spotted all of his family.

He worried his parents, his mother especially, when he didn't even bother trying to walk until he was three. And then when he did, he walked with a heavy limp, wincing with every step. His frantic parents had taken him to the healers, but they'd found nothing wrong with him. So, they all assumed Ron would be stuck with a limp for the rest of his life.

The oddest things however, was Ron's apparent obsession with the strange word "Sherlock". His parents had never heard it before, not until their toddler started sobbing the word out in his sleep. "Sherlock….Sherlock…" over and over. When he learned his letters, it was the first word he spelled out. He wrote it over everything, carefully and neatly. Once his parents asked him what a Sherlock was, Ron had smiled and uttered two words of utter nonsense: "Consulting Detective".

He didn't show any signs of magic until he was eight, which was far later on in life than even his little sister, Ginny, who started randomly levitating when she was four. He didn't have many friends, and tended to just watch people from afar. Throughout his life, his parents took him to mind healers, to see if they could find just what was wrong with young Ron. They always came back to the same thing: Sever chronic depression.

But why was a little boy, in a large loving family, depressed?

***1047***

Hermione Jean Granger was in denial.

She was _NOT_ a girl, she was not. She was a boy. Not even that, but a man! Her parents always laughed at her when she said so. She retaliated by chopping off all her hair.

Hermione was a bright little girl. She started walking, talking, reading and writing earlier than all of her peers. She enjoyed reading mystery books and watching cop shows, and even said she wanted to be a police detective when she grew up. But then she'd grow sad and distant.

Hermione never dressed or acted like a little girl. She dressed and acted like a little boy who wanted to be older than he was. She wore tiny suit blazers over sweater vests (that her mum thought was adorable), ties and slacks. She always made sure her hair was short (long hair was such a hassle) and if her parents refused to take to to a barber when it got too shaggy, she took matters (and scissors) into her own hands.

When Hermione told her parents she remembered her past life, they took her first to a psychic, then to a child psychologist. She was only five. She told them she was a man named Greg Lestrade who worked for the London Police as a detective. She gave them detail after detail that were all confirmed until they had no choice but to believe her. Especially when her psychologist dug up a five-year-old newspaper article about five people being murdered in an explosion by a man named Moriarty: Greg Lestrade, John Watson, Martha Hudson, Sherlock Holmes and Mycroft Holmes. Hermione cried when she saw that none of her friends had survived. Her mother fainted when she saw that the explosion happened the month before she'd given birth to Hermione.

They took her around the places she used to frequent, though they never spoke to anyone. Hermione smiled when she saw her old Coworkers, Anderson and Donovan. And frowned when they passed the newly rebuilt 221 Baker Street, now a memorial to the famous duo Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Watson.

****1047****

Sherlock swore that if he ever met Mycroft ever again, he'd give his brother a hug. As much as he'd resented him in his first life, he was now so very grateful that he'd _had_ a brother like Mycroft, rather than relatives like the Dursley's. They called him Freak, like Sally Donavan used to. But for some reason it hurt more. Sherlock assumed that it was because he no longer had his John with him to soften the blow. They never hurt him physically, aside from denying him food on a regular basis. But Sherlock didn't really mind, eating was boring. But then, so was being locked in a cupboard, which they also did on a regular basis.

Sherlock soon learned how to open it from the inside, so that he had freedom at night when the Dursleys were asleep. When he was five he rejoiced when the Dursleys bought his pig of a cousin his first computer. Computer meant internet. Internet meant information. Information meant a happy Sherlock. Perhaps he'd finally find out where John was, convince him to adopt Sherlock. It shouldn't be too hard, John always had a soft spot for kids.

That night he crept up the stairs, listening to his 'family' snore away. He got onto his computer and began to type. When he found that John had died that night as well, he couldn't stop the tears from dripping down his nose. There went his last chance of ever finding his first and only friend. His John. Oh, and his brother, Greg and Mrs. Hudson were dead as well. If Sherlock hadn't been wary of waking the Dursleys, he would have howled in anguish. When James and Lily had been murdered, he'd been…regretful, but it hadn't hurt nearly this much.

Sherlock forced himself to scan the news sites, studying up on what had happened in the word the last few years. Then he clicked over to his old web site that for some reason was yet to be taken down. Someone was still funding it? Mycroft had in life, maybe his people had never pulled the spending. In any event, he was glad for it. He posted a new message.

"Harry James Potter. Looking for old friends. If convenient, message at once. If inconvenient, message anyway." Sherlock posted it, hoping that, somewhere, John still had his memories and would recognize their old joke. Sherlock sighed, turning off the computer. Until someone responded, he had his magic to practice.

****1047****

Hermione flicked through random news sites. She came across an article stating that some criminal had the police stumped, even after leaving behind a series of strange clues. Hermione smiled weakly to herself. This is just the kind of case Sherlock would have liked to solve. The clues were all various kinds of tobacco, which stirred something in her brain. She opened a new page on her computer and typed in 'The Science of Deduction', remembering that, before he died, Sherlock had done extensive study on the various kinds of Tobaccos.

When the page loaded, her heart puttered to a stop. Three weeks ago, someone had posted something to Sherlock's website. "Harry James Potter. Looking for old friends. If convenient, message at once. If inconvenient, message anyway."

She opened the Personal Message slide and started typing. "Hermione Jean Granger. Sherlock?"  
She waited and waited for someone to answer. After about twenty minutes, she gave up, closing her laptop then sliding out of her chair with a sigh. The next day there was a new PM waiting for her. "John? 11:45 pm"

At precisely 11:44 that night, she turned her computer back on. "No. Greg. Sorry. Is it really you, Sherlock?"

The reply was almost instant. "Hello Greg. Have you heard from John?" Hermione bit her lower lip, wishing she had better news to bring.

"No. But don't give up hope yet. If you and I still remember, there's a chance John does, too!"

"True, but he might not have been reborn yet."

Hermione changed the topic, talking about John would just make them both depressed. "Where are you?"  
"Surrey, England. I see that you are in London. Lucky."

"Yeah, except I'm a bloody girl this time."

"It could be worse."

"How?"

"You could be trapped with negligent 'caretakers' who are more than happy to keep the Freak locked in a boot cupboard."

"Bloody Hell, Sherlock, I'm sorry."

"Why? It's not your fault."

They ended up talking for the next three hours, until Hermione's parents came into her room to find her half asleep, but still typing away. They made her say good-bye to whoever it was and turn it off. After she did so, they tucked her in and her mother asked "Who was that, dear?"

"Sherlock" she said happily before drifting off.

****1047****

Ron knew he was worrying his family, and he felt bad for it. He saw when his mother would chew on her bottom lip, staring after him with sad affection in her eyes. His brothers, who usually teased and pranked everyone, were abnormally gentle and protective when it came to their youngest brother. His little sister looked at him strangely, but fondly. Strangers peered at him as though he were some sort of interesting bug. His father was loving, but distant, as though he were afraid to do something wrong that would break his child.

Nevertheless, Ron couldn't help his stupid limp. Sherlock had been the cure in his last life, but Sherlock wasn't here. John…Ron…had heard about children remembering their past lives, though they'd almost always forgotten with time. But Ron was nearly ten now, and he still remembered so much, so clearly. He remembered the manic gleam in Sherlock's beautiful ice green-blue eyes when he got an idea, or an interesting case. He remembered the serenades and concertos Sherlock would fill the flat with, with his violin. He remembered the taste of his and Sherlock's tea when Mrs. Hudson made it just right. The smell of decaying things in their fridge. Mycroft and Sherlock's silly rivalry.

The bomb. Whenever Ron closed his eyes he could still see the dreadful thing sitting there. Gregs' men had supposedly dismantled it, so Greg had brought it up for Sherlock to take a peek at. Mycroft had shown up…John still wasn't sure why. And Mrs. Hudson had brought them all up tea and biscuits. John had been standing by Sherlock's side as his best friend was rambling on about things way over John's head. He remembered Sherlock turning and beaming at him, then he'd suddenly gone pale and shoved John off of his feet.

Then the bomb went off.

John was still barely hanging on, but he could see Sherlock's usually bright eyes, dulled. His mouth open. Blood dripping from his nose and mouth, his long neck bent at an awkward angle. John, reached for him, entangling their hands. Then he died, heart aching with the knowledge that Sherlock had tried to save him.

That had been on July 30th. Three weeks later, Ron was born. Everything had been a bit of a blur at first. When he was able to think clearly, his first thought was "Where's Sherlock". Then everything came back to him at once, and he was stunned into silence as he realized he was one of the strange few who remembered their past lives.

He also realized it was unlikely the same had happened to Sherlock.

His tiny frame was racked with great heaving sobs, which roused his parents from sleep at two in the morning. He felt bad for it, but couldn't stop his tears. As Molly held him closely, telling him everything would be alright, he desperately wanted to believe her. But it wasn't. Later, when he learned the magic was real and _oh_ he was a wizard, it hardly seemed to matter because…Sherlock wasn't here to make it matter. He knew just how pathetic that sounded, but he didn't truly care.

Being a wizard meant no computers. Which meant he couldn't figure out what had happened after John Watson had died, if Sherlock had survived after all (although deep inside he knew the bomb had killed his amazing friend instantly), or looking for any clue that might tell him Sherlock still had all his memories as well.

Ron sighed, trying to concentrate on the book he was reading. He was going to Hogwarts next year, and he wanted to be well prepared. Footsteps coming from behind alerted him to the fact that he wasn't alone anymore. Two tall lanky bodies dropped down, one on either side of him. Ron managed a small smile. Fred and George, his two favorite siblings. They were inquisitive, intelligent, but mischievous. They reminded him of Sherlock, though they'd never be as brilliant.

"Hello, Ronnikins," started Fred, the twin with slightly more prominent ears.

"Whatcha up to?" asked George, the twin with a pointier nose.

"Reading," said Ron simply. "It's boring." Both twins laughed a bit at this, before offering to take him flying on one of their old brooms for a Quidditch practice. They were in their second year at Hogwarts, and both had already made Beater on their team. They were set on making Ron a Keeper or Chaser as soon as he was old enough.

"Alright," agreed Ron as he allowed the twins to pull him to his feet.

****1047****

The game didn't last very long, much the boys' disappointment. After the last failure of an appointment with a mind healer, (Ron had ended up in tears after refusing multiple times to explain why he was always so depressed and the healer began to shout at him), Molly and Arthur decided to take matters to Headmaster Dumbledore. Apparently, the esteemed Headmaster was an old friend of the Weasley's, and had agreed to try and help Ron get over his depression.

So, Arthur gently led Ron over to the fireplace as Molly hunted down the last bag of their Floo powder supply. "Listen, son" Arthur started. "I know that you're a good boy, and the limp isn't your fault…" Arthur stumbled over what he was saying awkwardly as his wife shot his a murderous look. "What I'm trying to say is, Dumbledore is the most powerful wizard of the age. Be respectful, do as he says, and I'm sure everything will be alright!" Arthur finished brightly with a smile that was only partially forced. Ron, for his part, nodded solemnly as Molly produced a small bag from behind a stack of old newspapers.

They Flooed into Dumbldore's office, Ron stumbling a bit as he accidently landed on his bad leg. The legendary wizard sat behind a large wooden desk, smiling kindly at them all. His beard was long and frazzled, white as snow. His hair was much the same. He wore robes the color of emerald, and silver framed half-moon spectacles sat perched on the tip of his crooked nose. The adults exchanged pleasantries briefly before Dumbledore looked to Ron. "Mr. Weasley?" he inquired, getting Ron's attention. "I and your parents have some matters to discuss. If you would like, you may explore the castle while you wait? It may take a while."

Ron looked to his father, who nodded encouragingly. Then Ron looked back to Dumbledore and gave a nod of his own before turning and walking out the door. The door led him to a series of steps that led to a dead end. As soon as he grew near, however, the gargoyle (That's what was blocking his path, he discovered) leaped out of the way.

Ron, used to strange things like this happening all the time, simply walked passed it and down the hallway. It was an impressive castle, that was certain. But it did nothing to awe Ron as he quietly limped down the hallway. He wandered aimlessly, up and down staircases and around bends. Eventually, he found himself in the dungeons. His curiosity awakened somewhat, as he remembered his brothers saying that the dungeons were where the Slytherin's lived.

He hadn't gotten to explore very much, when a hand with an iron-grip reached out to clamp his shoulder. Ron gasped as he was whirled around to face a man he'd never seen before with pale skin and greasy, stringy black hair and a huge hooked nose. Professor Snape, Ron recognized from his older brothers' many, many detailed descriptions.

"What are you doing, boy?" the man asked, his voice stern and rebuking. Ron flinched a bit, having grown unused to such tones. Then he mentally chided himself, he was a grown man, for pities' sake! Why was it so hard to _act_ like one?

"Exploring. I was told I could while I waited for my parents," Ron explained. "They're in a meeting." The man was still for a moment. Professor Snape had, of course, heard about the youngest Weasley son. The older Weasleys were forever babbling about things they could tell "Ronnikins" in their next letter home. He'd recognized Ronald right away; because of the heavy limp the boy was cursed with. He was surprised by how the boy spoke, however. He sounded much more mature than even Percival, but there were undertones of a dark depression that Severus recognized all too well. Why on earth, though, would that darkness be found inside a ten-year-old Weasley? Previous to actually seeing the boy, face-to-face, he assumed the alleged depression was rooted in Arthur and Molly spoiling their crippled son. But now he wondered if there wasn't more to it.

"Come," Severus told the boy, marginally more gentle now. "I'll not have you wandering around unsupervised to fall through a staircase to your death. You know how to prepare beetles and newt eyes for potions, yes?"

The boy was quiet for a moment, before slowly shaking his head. "Will you teach me?" Severus was surprised at this question, but quickly controlled his emotions before nodding stiffly and steering the boy into his office lab, where he'd been busy brewing for Pomfrey before hearing Ronald's noisy gait come down the hall.

Ron watched and listened carefully as Snape showed him how to dice the beetles into cubes, then smash out the juices with the flat of the blade. Then, how to pull the tiny eyeballs out of the newt's eye sockets without damaging the orbs. He thought of how much Sherlock would have enjoyed this, and he smiled a bit, before realizing that Sherlock would never enjoy it because he was dead. He smile fell away abruptly and his shoulders sagged as though a heavy weight had dropped onto them.

Severus had never truly cared much for most children, but he found himself truly worried about Ronald Weasley. For a moment, the boy had looked almost content at doing an activity Severus would sometimes employ during detention. But then a wave of melancholy had tangibly washed over him. "You're causing your parent's a lot of pain" Severus found himself saying, before he could stop himself.

"I know." Was the boy's reply. He sounded defeated, resigned. "I don't mean to be this way."

"What way?" Severus asked, layering his voice with compulsive magic. It was technically illegal for a teacher to use such magic against a student, but Ronald wasn't his student yet.

The boy hesitated. Ron found himself over taken with the urge to tell the professor. It'd be nice, an inner voice reasoned, to have someone else know what you're going through. After all, other children who remember never have any problems telling people. That's how reincarnation stories end up on the Telly in the first place. Ron chewed on his bottom lip. "You have to _swear_ not to tell."

Severus was surprised. The boy had fought off the magic enough to still be hesitant and ask for reassurance. Also, he said 'swear', not 'promise'. "I swear upon my magic to not tell this secret unless it presents harm to you or others. So mote it be." The magic took, and the loop hole was big enough that Severus was sure he could reason his way around it, need be. "Satisfied?" he asked the boy, who slowly nodded.

"I doubt you'll believe me anyway," the boy began softly as he continued to dice the beetle in front of him. "I remember my past life. All of it. Every bit."

Severus dropped his knife with a clatter. The idea of reincarnation was a controversial one in the wizarding world. It was how some people explained squibs and Muggleborns (wizard souls in the bodies of muggles, or muggles in the bodies of wizards). Every now and then, people would claim to remember their past life as Merlin or Godric Gryffindor. Children were known to remember glimpses and flashes that would fade over time. But to remember _everything_? Merlin, no wonder the boy was a mess. Assuming he was telling the truth that is.

"Why would this depress you?" Snape asked conversationally as he retrieved his knife. "Many people would think this a blessing."

"It's not," Ron said quietly. "My life was…amazing." The boy's voice had dropped down to a whisper. "I was a muggle named John Hamish Watson. I was a Doctor in the British Army until a wound to the shoulder caused me to be discharged. PTSD left me depressed and with a psychosomatic limp. I was alone for a while, avoiding my drunk of a sister, wandering around London. Then one day, an old mate from school recognizes me and we got to talking. I mentioned that I needed a flatmate, and things happened…and then I met Sherlock." A soft, sad smile found its way onto the boy's face. Severus watched and listened, transfixed, potions forgotten.

"Sherlock Holmes was incredible and brilliant in every way. Bit of a social retard, but I know he did it on purpose to make things more interesting. He was a genius, one glance at you and he'd tell you your whole life story, leaving you wondering how the heck he knew." Ron chuckled a bit. "He was a consulting detective, the only in the world, who worked with the police when they were out of their depth…which was always." The smile was growing. "He'd solve cases by himself, dragging me along with him all through London. Something just clicked between us, right away. Friends from the start, almost. He'd drag me on all these crazy, amasing adventures and I'd write them all down for the world to enjoy on my blog. We were famous for a while, you know.

"He'd get bored easily, so he'd conduct experiments in the flat. Sometimes he'd get a friend to give him human remains to experiment on. He always kept them in the fridge. Can't tell you how many times I nagged him for leaving a decapitated head next to the fresh fruit, or leaving fingers in the bread box. And I'll never forget the one time he came home covered in blood, holding a harpoon over his shoulder like a rifle.

"I can't even begin to explain how amazing he was. He liked to pretend he was heartless, but when our landlady was sick he tried making her tea. He burned it terribly but Mrs. Hudson drank it anyway, bless her. When Lestrade got divorced Sherlock dragged me down the the hotel he was staying at and the three of us stayed up all night devising ways to get away with murder." Ron laughed a bit. "That cheered him up. Even Sally Donovan, who hated him, when her cat died and she was sad, Sherlock anonymously bought her a cactus. He was so embarrassed when I caught him, he tried to make it seem like a joke, saying that the cactus would be harder for Sally to kill."

Severus felt vaguely confused. All of these people that Ron was obviously so familiar with he didn't see the need to explain them. And though Severus didn't have all of the pieces, he was beginning to see the bigger picture. Ron was happy, very happy with his flatmate. Possibly even in love from the way he was talking. He wasn't depressed. He was heartbroken. Severus shifted uncomfortably as Ron continued with his story.

"Then…there was a case that someone was leaving bombs all over. A man named Moriarty…Sherlock's self-proclaimed arch-nemesis. He left clues for Sherlock to follow. Obviously, Sherlock figured them all out easily locating the bombs. We'd thought they'd managed to dismantle all of them. Lestrade had brought one of them up to our flat for Sherlock to examine, to see if he could find any clues to lead us to Moriarty. He did find something; I can't remember what. Then, he stopped smiling and threw himself at me…just as the bomb exploded." All signs of Ron's previous smiles were gone; tears were rolling down his cheeks. "He tried to save me, professor. He almost did, but help didn't come in time. He died right away though, I remember his face…his brilliant eyes…" Ron gingerly put down the knife he was holding before scrubbing at his face with the arm of his jumper.

Before Severus could say anything to try and comfort the boy, Ron started talking again. The words were pouring out of him, like water from a crack in a dam. "Next thing I know, I'm being born. But everything was so hazy. I couldn't think straight. It wasn't for a few weeks until everything came rushing back. I know how rare remembering your past life is. I know I'll never see Sherlock again. He's what gave my life meaning, and I just feel so empty without him. My stupid limp carried over, even my old war wound acts up and that not really there, either. I know it's not fair to my parents, but I can't control it. I _have_ been trying,! But…it all just…feels so pointless."

Severus was saved from responding by a voice clearing. A house elf was here to escort "Master Weasley" to Dumbledore's office. The boy whispered a "Thank you" as he slid off his stool.

Severus placed a hesitant hand on the boy's head as Ron walked passed. "Mr. Watson," the boy stopped. "I sincerely doubt that Sherlock would have wanted this burden for you. He sounds like a man who would have wanted you to move on, and be happy." Ron gave him a sad smile that told Severus he didn't really believe that.

That evening Severus was hardly surprised when Dumbledore told him that all Legilimency he'd attempted to use to diagnose the boy had been unsuccessful, but that the boy had seemed more at peace when he'd left.

****1047****

Mycroft missed his baby brother. He sat in the large window of his room in his new parent's manor, feeling lonely. It was a novel experience that Mycroft pondered for a bit before sighing and going back to wondering where his beloved baby brother was. He hoped that if Sherlock, like he, had been reincarnated, that he was happy and well taken care of. He held onto the hope that Sherlock still remembered, and that one day they might be able to seek each other out. But, knowing Sherlock, if he still remembered his past life he was probably still miffed at Mycroft for not realizing the bomb was still working…before.

The thought of Sherlock carrying a sulk over with him into his new life made Mycroft smile for a moment, before it slipped away. He watched the white peacocks in the lawn as they strutted about, much like Sherlock would when he thought he'd pulled one over Mycroft. The impressive curves and daunting height of the manor case long shadows over the grass.

Silently, Draco Malfoy slid out of the window seat and padded across the thick carpet to the door of his personal library. His father had stocked it full once he realized his heir had a love for reading, which Draco was glad for. It gave him a chance to familiarize himself with this new world he found himself in. Sherlock would have been over the moon, had he known about all of this…before. Mycroft allowed a smile once more, thinking about all of the experiments his baby brother would have conducted had he had access to Potion ingredients or wand making materials. An image of John and Sherlock bickering over Sherlock keeping a decaying unicorn in the bathtub flitted across mind making him chuckle softly. Then he stopped, a twinge of pain and regret filing him.

Merlin, he missed his baby brother.

Draco browsed the shelves, where the House Elves had put the newly bought books his new Mummy had bought last time she went to Diagon Alley. One caught his eye: The Rise and Fall of the Dark Arts. He knew his new Father, Mr. Lucius Malfoy, had served the previous Dark Lord, and expected him to return one day from the dead for his loyal followers, like some kind of Evil Christ. So he pulled it off the shelf before gracefully lowering himself down into a plush chair near the fire.

About forty-five minutes later, he was halfway through the book when his heart leapt into his throat. It was _him_! He was sure of it. There, on the page, was a picture of an infant with unruly black, curly hair and bored green eyes. Ice green, like the Avada curse that Lucius had once used on an inept House Elf.

Or like Sherlock's eyes.

Mycroft remembered exactly how Sherlock looked as an infant, having been seven years older and very protective, hardly leaving his brother's side. And this "Harry Potter", the Boy-Who-Lived, who Lucius cursed nearly every day, who had vanquished the Dark Lord was the spitting image. A pale finger stroked the picture's cheek as the infant scowled back at him. Yes, it was definitely Sherlock. Sherlock had been reborn around the same time he had. A tad earlier, actually Mycroft thought ruefully. That made his baby brother a bit older than him in this life.

But that was good news, because in almost exactly one year, he would be reunited with Sherlock at Hogwarts, School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.


	2. Witches and Owls

**Hello guys! I love you all, so much! I can't believe how many people liked this idea! I wasn't expecting this many people to enjoy this topic of crossover, but I've very glad that you do! Yes, Mrs. Hudson is going to be in this story, however I am never going to out and out say who she is. I will, however, say that she does not have her memories. Cookies to the first one who figures it out! Secondly…Oops, yeah, forgot that Draco was older…messed up my HP facts. *sigh*, oh well, it's a fanfiction. xD Sorry for those of you who don't like John looking like a Weasley…I just couldn't wrap my mind around a redheaded John. LOL xD Basically, he and Sherlock just look like de-aged versions of themselves, while Mycroft looks like Draco Malfoy from the movies, and Greg looks like an athletic tom-boyish Hermione. A lovely reviewer has already given me many, many amazing ideas via PM, so if anyone has any ideas or suggestions as to where the story should go, I'm very open to that!**

 **~James**

He and Greg—Hermione….Gremione—had fallen into a routine. Every night at precisely 11:45, Hermione would send him the predictable "How was your day?" message, to which Sherlock would reply "Dull." Or "I hate everything" or "Any suggestions on how to skin a walrus?" and from there the conversation would run in random directions as they entertained themselves until two or three in the morning, at which point Hermione would always fall asleep at the computer.

Sherlock hated to admit it, but talking to Greg was the highlight of his very dull existence, aside from how his wandless magic was progressing. He remembered his 'Uncle Paddy' (who he knew was innocent, by the way) saying that it was very difficult, but necessary to become an animagus (Which he had planned to help Sherlock become when he was older). Sherlock was yet to unlock his animagus form, but he had high hopes for when somebody came for him to take him to that School his parents had spoken so much about.

He flicked his wrist, deftly unlocking his cupboard and slipped out. It was 11:38, so he went to the kitchen first and ate some cold fried chicken that was leftover from the Dursely's supper, before washing it down with milk. John would be so proud of him, Sherlock thought fondly, almost wistfully, feeding himself all on his own with no one to nag him.

He slowly crept up the stairs, wary of the creaking spots, and slid into Dudley's second room, where he kept a laptop under a floorboard. Dudley had discarded it a month ago after cracking the screen. He'd tossed it, after Vernon had bought him a new one, but Sherlock had retrieved it and squirreled it away. It was his now. He opened it up and turned it on, before magically locking the door. As always, a message was already waiting for him. Only, today it was different.

"I'm a witch." It said.

Sherlock felt glee rising up inside of him, though he only typed. "Good for you."

"I'm serious."

"I thought your name was Hannah."

"It's Hermione, which you well and fully know, _Harry_."

"Don't call me Harry, it's so dull. And you've only now figured out that you're a witch? I assume you've gotten your Hogwarts letter?"

It was a total guess, but perhaps Muggleborns were given top priority when it came to acceptance letters, which would make sense. It gave them ample time to adjust to their new reality. His thoughts were confirmed with Greg responded with "How did you know?"

"It was obvious" Sherlock decided to say, just to annoy him…her.

"Of course it was, you git," but Sherlock knew Greg wasn't offended.

"Are you going to Diagon Alley soon?"

"Already been! Not even going to ask how you already know about that place though. A professor from the school, McGongle I think her name was. She escorted us there after my parents agreed to let me attend!"

"I take it from the excess use of exclamation points that you are pleased with this?"

"Why wouldn't I? It's _Magic_ , Sherlock!"

"So I gathered. Find any good books?"

"Tons! I'm going to start reading them tomorrow, didn't get a chance today. I also got a wand, by the way. A real actual magic wand! :)"

"What's it made out of?"

"It's 10 and three quarter inches long, made out of vine wood and dragon heartstring core."

"Interesting. Both have very Dark affiliations. I would have bet that you were a light wielder. Nevermind that, though. Do you think John will be at Hogwarts?" Gremione's reply took longer to come than usual.

"Try not to get your hopes up, mate."

Sherlock sighed, rubbing his tired eyes. He knew Gremione had all but given up on ever finding any one else from his past life again. He had made new friends, and settled into his new life nicely. He didn't seem to understand why Sherlock couldn't let go. Doesn't understand that Sherlock's life had been _perfect_. He had John to pester, take care of and stand by him. Mrs. Hudson to mother him. Mycroft to clean up after him. Greg and his officers to provide him with entertainment…and now he literally had nothing. Even the clothes he wore were passed on from his horrible cousin.

He missed his coat and the comfy blue scarf John had made for him once.

His and Greg's conversation drifted on towards the various magic affiliations and the connotations, but in the back of his mind, Sherlock still stubbornly told himself that John would be at Hogwarts.

He had to be.

****1047****

Sherlock sat in his cupboard that morning after Greg had fallen asleep, before the Dursley's would wake up. His legs were crossed and his hands folded as though in prayer. His eyes were closed, and his mouth set in a relaxed but flat line. He had always enjoyed the stillness of mind that came with meditating, when he could explore his mind palace. However, in this new life it was far more interesting. His mind palace was filled with colorful threads of energy that lead to various rooms, some that were locked—to his ire.

It was his magic, beautiful and wild. He would sometimes grab onto a thread and feel the energy coursing through him. It gave him a feeling of exhilaration that he likened to flying. He followed along a thick blue thread, when he noticed that it was starting to grow colder in temperature, and darker in hue. Glancing up, he noticed a door.

The door was cheap and made of wood that had once been painted white, but now the paint was chipping and peeling off. The door handle was made of rusted copper, and the whole thing sat awkwardly on its hinges. The door handle was locked, it wouldn't turn. However, the door completely fell over when he wriggled the knob too hard.

Inside the room was a small…something. About the size of an alley cat. It was black, and seemed to be made completely of wispy smoke. Sherlock approached it, kneeling down, and did what any bored consulting detective would do…

He poked it.

****1047****

Sherlock had been slightly worried at first when Vernon had simply ripped up his Hogwarts letter. The upside had been Sherlock gaining Dudley's second bedroom for his own, which he was pleased about. But, the next day another letter came…accompanied by several others and he was considerably less worried.

Nothing on earth would stop him from going to Hogwarts.

The Dursley's, dead set on sending him to Stone Wall, had tried everything from nailing up the mail slot to dragging themselves and Sherlock out of Surrey and into the middle of nowhere, on a dark, wet, cold rock some ways off shore in a rickety old lighthouse. It was at some point between getting in the car, to landing on said rock that Sherlock realized that it was July 30th, the day before his birthday. He would be eleven. As The Dursley's ate their packed meal, completely ignoring Sherlock (which he was completely fine with) he smiled as his stomach filled with anticipation. Something was going to happen, he just knew it.

He didn't sleep that night, missing his nightly chat with Gremione. Dudley's watch glowed in the dark, it passed 11:45 and Sherlock sighed, wondering if Greg was sending many repetitive messages out of worry because Sherlock wasn't responding. Sighing lightly, he stretched out on the ground, his head pillowed by his hands as he stared up at the ceiling. It was pretty cold, the chill seeping into his bones. He found himself thinking of John's warm, fuzzy, ugly jumpers that Sherlock would steal on occasion. He wondered if John still wore jumpers like that?

He was still lost in his thoughts about John when the door was blasted down.

***1047***

Ron looked down at Charlie's old wand, the unicorn hair sticking out of the end. His mother was looking down at him worriedly, a handful of hand-me-down wands in her apron pocket. All of them had rejected Ron as owner. "It doesn't like me either," Ron said softly. "I'm sorry." His parents were quick to assure him that it wasn't _his_ fault, it was obviously the wand's fault. But he saw them exchange a worried look, and he still felt guilty. He knew they were pressed for money, and his constant check-ups weren't helping anything.

"It's alright, dear. We can pull together enough to get you a wand, don't you worry, love." Molly said kindly as she took the wand from him. Ron managed a small smile, remembering Mrs. Hudson calling him that. It had been over a decade since his past life, but he still missed it. It was like a constant ache. It was like his limp.

"I can help make dinner?" Ron asked, feeling useless. Molly smiling fondly at him.

"Sure, why don't you start getting out what I'll need for the corn bread?" Ron nodded before limping over into the kitchen. When he was upset, like he was now, his limp got worse. His clumsy limb growing stiff and achy. But he managed, pulling out bowls, a stirring spoon and the various ingredients. He was just pulling down the jar of corn meal when a gentle hand was placed on his shoulder. Ron looked up to see his big brother Percy, who had a hand behind his back.

"Listen, Ronny," Percy said, his voice kind and affectionate like it only ever was when he was talking to Ron. "Since Mum and Dad are having trouble this year, with the twins needing new robes, me needing a new cauldron and scales, and you just starting out, I thought that I'd help out a bit. For your familiar, would you like to take care of Scabbers for me?" Ron's eyes grew large, Percy loved that rat. Unable to speak, he only nodded dumbly and watched as his older brother smiled widely and revealed that Scabbers was in his hidden hand, a worn red bow tied around his fat neck. Ron smiled at that and held out his hands for Percy to place the old rat in. Ron cuddled it to his chest, before giving his brother a grateful hug.

"Thank you."

"You're welcome." Percy gave him a little smile before taking a deep breath. "Listen, Ronny, I know you have trouble making friends…but you're going to be living with your year mates for the next seven years. Promise me…promise me you'll give them a chance? I know kids are noisy, and annoying, and immature…but most of them have potential. Try and find that, yeah?" Ron exhaled deeply, still holding Scabbers tightly.

"'Kay," he finally said, and Percy broke into a wide smile.

****1047****

Sherlock had refused to go back to the Dursleys, instead using his old acting skills and charm to convince Hagrid into letting him stay in Diagon Alley at the Leaky Cauldron. He had gathered several thousand Galleons from his vault, and rented the largest room available there. Then he'd gone back to Madam Malkin's and custom ordered a coat exactly like his old one, along with a full set of casual slacks and button ups of the highest quality as well as new shoes, under garments, comfy pajamas and a robe, and a blue scarf that reminded him of John. She was pleased with his order, then directed him to a Trunk shop for him to buy one while she finished making his clothes. The trunk he decided on had a self-expanding library (as well as a secret room that was _perfect_ for conducting experiments) which led him to go back to the book store and buy several hundred galleons worth of books. From there he went back to Ollivanders to buy a wand holster. Then the apothecary for ingredients that _weren't_ on this school list, but he wanted for…reasons…and then he bought an extra cauldron and stirring rod set. By the time he'd finished up and was heading back to Madam Malkin's he was very grateful for feather light and shrinking charms (underage magic was impossible to trace in crowded magical areas, he'd learned from the clerk at the book store). As he was walking in, he noticed a pale boy with an aloof expression, over the top robes, and hair styled in a stupid but _familiar_ way.

Sherlock came closer, not bothering to hide his curiosity. The boy was familiar somehow. John's name flashed through his mind, but the idea was quickly dismissed. The boy was nothing like John, if anything he was like…"Mycroft?" The boy spun around, eyes wide.

"Sherlock!" He said, gaping for a mere instant before regaining his composure. He held out a hand "Draco, Draco Malfoy."

"Mycroft!" Sherlock only repeated and prepared to throw his arms around the brother/rival he hadn't seen for over a decade, but then caught himself. Was he really just about to _hug_ Mycroft? Completely surprising Sherlock, Mycroft had no such qualms. He embraced his little brother tightly, burying his face into the soft, curly, unruly hair. Sherlock might be older in this life, but he was also shorter due to malnutrition, Mycroft realized. Nobody had been making him eat. Without Mycroft or John…either Sherlock had been starving himself or somebody else was mistreating him. The thought made him tighten his grip further. He smiled as he felt Sherlock slowly, seemingly reluctantly, returning the hug.

After a moment the broke apart. "You're looking well," Sherlock said after a moment.

"You're not," Mycroft returned sternly. "When was the last time you ate?"

"Three hours ago, a large three course meal with dessert if you must know. My physical state is _not_ my fault. The relatives _Dumbledore_ dumped me with hate me." Sherlock was doing his best to remain emotionless, but Mycroft knew his baby brother. Sherlock blamed his own "freakishness" for this. "I'm not staying with them any longer, though. So you needn't say anything."

Mycroft let it slide for now, since Sherlock was apparently in better hands. "Make sure you eat again soon. You need to regain some body fat."

"And become obese like you?" Sherlock sneered, though it lacked all heat. Mycroft nearly smiled, though he controlled himself.

"You should know that Draco Malfoy is an active lad who is very diligent about maintaining his health." Sherlock only snorted at this. Then something seemed to occur to him and his vivid green eyes grew wide.

"Where's John? Have you seen him yet? I've looked all around my old neighborhood, he wasn't there." Sherlock's eyes were so desperate; Mycroft did his best to be gentle.

"Sherlock," Mycroft said softly "It's highly unlikely that anyone from our old life is as we are. We've always been different. But John was ordinary. Furthermore, remembering past lives is extremely rare…"

"You're wrong." Sherlock was truly angry now. Oh dear. "John wasn't _ordinary_ " his eyes were growing wet. Mycroft silently kicked himself. "John was _brilliant_."

"You know that's not what I meant to say."

"But it's what you said."

The stood there in silence for a while, Sherlock glaring wetly and Mycroft's face impassive. Mycroft laid a hand on his shoulder and squeezed lightly, relieved when Sherlock didn't simply shrug off his touch. "I promise you, if he's here we will find him." Sherlock remained still for a moment. But then he nodded just as Madame Malkin came back up front.

"Ah, there you are, Mr. Potter." She handed him his shrunken order. "I'm afraid yours will take a little longer, Mr. Malfoy," Mycroft nodded his understanding.

As Sherlock turned to go, Mycroft called after him. "See you at Hogwarts, then?"

"Yeah, see you."

****1047*****

Greg was growing worried. It had been almost three days since she'd last heard from Sherlock. That's the longest the two of them had ever gone without messaging since they'd started. She'd taken to pulling up Sherlock's site randomly on her phone, about once every other hour. Still no message. And the latest post was still the one from last week about various cleaning solutions and how they contribute to mental deterioration.

Her parents told her not to worry, that he was probably just too busy or tired. But Hermione still fretted, messaging him frequently with things like "Let me know you're still alive."

It was around eight that night when her family was eating dinner that a beautiful Snowy Owl started rapping at the window in their dining room. Hermione ran over to let her in. She fluttered around for a second before roosting on the back of Hermione's now empty chair. "Do you think that's from the school, dear?" her mother asked her.

"I don't know," she replied taking the small scroll from the holder at the owl's right talon. "No," she said, a smile growing. "It's from my friend, Sherlock."

"Oh, he's a magic person, too then?" her dad asked. "What are the odds?"

"You have no idea," she muttered under her breath. "May I be excused?" she asked a little louder. Before her father even gave permission, she held an arm out for the owl to perch on. As soon as the Snowy was settled Hermione started off for her room. As soon as she was there she sat down at her desk, where the owl hopped off to soar around the room, exploring. Hermione unrolled the scroll.

" _Greg,_

 _No doubt you have been needlessly worrying yourself about my lack of reply to whatever boring messages you sent to my web site. Before you grow angry, I wasn't ignoring you. A staff member of Hogwarts, Rubeus Hagrid, took me to Diagon Alley. Due to circumstances I was unable to bring my computer. I am staying at the Leaky Cauldron, as I have no wish to return to my dear 'relatives'._

 _My owl's name is 'Hedwig' by the way. It means both 'fighter' and 'Refuge in war'. I found the name on page 34 of our required history text. It reminded me of John. I bought him one, as well. A Greater Sooty Owl named Ian._

 _Mycroft still has his memories. I realized belatedly that I forgot to mention you to him, so he doesn't know you remember your past life as well. He hasn't seen John yet either, but he promised to help. He said he goes by Draco Malfoy in this life, by the way. I think it suits him._

 _I suppose this is the part of the letter where I ask how you've been? The main reason I sent this letter at all, honestly, was to see if owl delivery was efficient. So, if you will please respond as quickly as you can when you get this, it would be appreciated. Do you have an owl?_

 _Lastly, Hagrid was acting curious at the bank. I smell a case._

 _I will see you on the first. Only a month to go._

 _W. Sherlock. S. Holmes_ "

Hermione rolled the letter back up and stuck it somewhere safe before pulling out a piece of paper and a pen to start her own.

" _Git_

 _Glad to know you're not dead. Not that I'd care either way._

 _Hagrid? I think McGongle might have mentioned him. He's the ground's keeper, isn't he? What was he doing at the bank? Acting curious how? And, Sherlock, it wouldn't do to be expelled from Hogwarts. Be careful. This is our life now._

 _I'm sure John would love her and her name. Greater Sooty Owl? Just looked that up. They seem cute._

 _How was Mycroft then? I've seen the name 'Malfoy' in quite a few of the books I've bought. They're quite a prominent family, as far as I can tell. Dark affiliated. Though, knowing you, you already know this._

 _Don't you think it's weird that we now know you, I and Mycroft all remember? I wonder why? I wonder who we'll find next? Mrs. Hudson maybe?_

 _No, I don't have an owl. But now I want one._

 _Have to go, mum is calling me from downstairs._

 _~G. L. Hermione Granger_."


	3. Call Me Sherlock

**HI! Sorry It's taken so long to update, with college starting and going to all sorts of activities, life is crazy right now. Also IT'S MY BIRTHDAY! I'm so happy…Funny thing is, I got two pet corn snakes for my BDay (whom I named Sherlock and Watson), and later today my siblings and I are going to binge watch all of the Harry Potter movies. Ha! Because of that, I was in the mood to write another chapter. Enjoy!**

****1047*****

The month passed by in a strange combination of too fast, and too agonizingly slow. Sherlock was glad for the time that allowed him to experiment with various things he bought from the apothecary and to read all of the books he'd bought from Florish and Blotts. However, the days didn't end soon enough, time wasn't fast enough. He wanted to be at Hogwarts, because he knew that's where he'd find John.

It had to be.

He made sure to eat three reasonably sized meals a day (for John's sake, obviously), and he slept close to five hours a night. A new personal record. Around the middle of August, he indulged a good "I'm bored" sulk, like he hadn't been able to at the Dursley's. He curled up in front of the fire, in his pajamas and bathrobe, muttering under his breath at everything that was wrong with the world. When he went out in public, he made sure to keep his long hair in front of his scar, and his muggle clothes donned, so that no one would recognize him. He hated being the Boy-Who-Lived almost as much as he'd hated his celebrity status in his last life. Still, no one seemed to expect their savior to look or act quite like Sherlock, so he had a reasonable amount of anonymity for now.

Four days before it was time to go to King's Cross, he realized he was running out of potions ingredients, so he dressed and grabbed a money bag before returning to the apothecary. The last two times he'd been in, he'd been the only customer. This time, however, as he walked through the doors, he immediately noticed the sour-faced, sallow-skinned man browsing the selection of ingredients. Sherlock examined him, taking in his appearance and deducing.

"Finished staring?" the man had noticed Sherlock. Sherlock met the man's gaze unflinchingly, which seemed to surprise the man, though he quickly schooled his features back into a practiced scowl.

"You're the Hogwarts Potion Master." He said, it wasn't a question. The man's face showed even more surprise.

"Dressed like that, you must be a Muggleborn, so how could you possibly know?"

Sherlock hesitated, remembering Gremione's warning not to cause trouble. But then he decided that it didn't matter because he wasn't at school yet, there was no way this man could punish him. "Your hair for one." The man stiffened, his scowl becoming more pronounced. Sherlock noticed and noted it, but pretended not to. "Your hair is unnaturally oiled, obviously not from product. Yet your clothes are neatly done and clean. Furthermore, your fingernails are clear of dirt, proving that you are not a naturally slovenly man. Which means the state of your hair can be explained by constant exposure to Potion fumes, which leave residue in your hair. In addtion, you are pale but this not genetically so. Therefore, you must spend much of your time in doors. You carry yourself confidently, and you automatically meet people's gaze with intent to intimidate. Normally this might indicate that you have high station, but your clothes are old and well taken care of, which means you receive low pay. Authority figure, then. Used to being obeyed without question. The position of the wrinkles on your face despite your obviously young age, no more than forty, indicates a large amount of stress. The scuffs on the toes of your shoes…are from stone? Stone steps. Many of them and frequently traveled." The man's face was slack with shock. Sherlock continued on with his rant anyway. "It's easy to assume that the combination of stressed authority figure, who brews potions for a living while earning low wages, in a facility big enough to merit many, many flights of stone staircases indicates that you are the Potion Master at Hogwarts."

The man was silent for a moment, then he crossed his arms looking down at Sherlock with interest. "What is your name?"

"Sherlock, and yours?"

A frigid pause followed Sherlock's question for a long, awkward moment, before the professor deemed it worthy enough to merit a response. "Professor Snape." There was carefully hidden shock, and calculating coldness on the man's dour face. But Sherlock chose to ignore it for now.

"I look forward to your class." Sherlock said honestly before stepping around the man to grab the student potion gear pack, as well as a few other items just for him. The man was still there watching him when he left.

****1047****

Sherlock packed his things early on the morning of September 1st, eager to reach King's Cross. Tom the bartender had informed him that, while the wizarding world doesn't actually have taxis, they do have a bus. So, once on the curb, Sherlock held out his wand. Almost instantly, a _hideous_ bus squealed to a stop in front of him. A young, spotty teenager jumped out with a cheery grin and began to prattle off some obviously rehearsed line. "Welcome to the night bus! For eleven sickles you can—" Sherlock handed him three galleons, effectively cutting him off.

"King's Cross," he said striding over to a seat, his owls in a cage, the handle clutched in his left fist. He sat down in one of the less filthy seats, near a window so dirty that it could be considered opaque. With a jolt, the bus took off, swerving and lurching through the streets of London.

****1047****

Ron wasn't that nervous, though his family seemed to think that he should be. All three of his brothers (who still lived at home) paid him visits that morning, with reassurances that it was all going to be okay. Even Ginny was rather clingy, giving him lots of hugs and holding onto his arm all through breakfast. Ron gave them all smiles, but none of them seemed to see it. Molly tutted over him, straightening his hair and clothes, and giving him advice like "When you see someone you want to be friends with, just smile! You've got a nice smile."

Now they were nearly to the barrier and Ginny had a tight hold on his left hand, Molly on his right. Ginny was pleading with Molly to let her go a year early, because _clearly_ Ron wouldn't survive without her. "They'll eat him alive!" she wailed.

Percy rolled his eyes as he charged ahead with his cart. The twins soon followed, then Ginny helped Ron push his cart through, even though he didn't really need any help. In the station, hundreds of families were gathered around saying their good byes. Older kinds simply ran right onto the train, excited to see their friends. Mothers of younger kids were blubbering messes, while pretty much every father there just stood around looking awkward.

His own father clapped him on the shoulder as Molly did her best to smother him with her own body. The twins finally took pity on him, wrestling their little brother away with promises to send a toilet seat to Ginny. "C'mon, Ronnikins," they tell him, giving him a gentle push before each grabbing one side of his trunk. Their things are already shrunk and in their pockets. Ron smiled after them, waved to his parents one last time, then boarded the train.

He hasn't gone fifteen feet when an arm shoots out of a compartment and drags him in.

****1047****

Sherlock stepped off of the Knight Bus, wishing he had a chance to question the driver more about it. However, he wants to be able to see everyone as they get on the train, and to do that he has to be there early. It's only when he steps into the large station, that he realizes he has no idea how to get to platform "Nine and three-quarters" and he fumes, trying to figure out how on earth he forgot to question someone about this.

He figures that any guards around here would be muggles, and therefore useless. So he goes and sits on a bench near platforms nine and ten, resting his elbows on his knees and his chin on his knuckles. His owls sat beside him in their small cage, trying to sleep. Wizards stood out in the muggle world, so it should be hard to find a wizarding family and follow them onto the platform. He ends up waiting, bored, for nearly fifteen minutes before a large, loud family heads towards him. They were obviously wizards. He could tell from the way the father excitedly gawked at everything around him and the children stared at people with a strange fascination. Their clothing was also strangely mismatched and the fact that they were saying things like "packed with muggles" was also a nice clue.

The first thing that Sherlock noticed was that they were all redheads. The second thing he noticed was that the first thing was wrong. There was a boy, slightly taller than he (due to his stunted growth from malnutrition) but obviously the same age who had straw blonde hair. From the way his family acted, they were all very protective of him in a way which showed he was either mentally handicapped, crippled, extremely babyish, the favored child or a combination of those options. The boy was limping, Sherlock noticed as he watched curiously.

Despite the blond boy's limp, when he stood still as one of his older brothers ran passed Sherlock right into a brick barrier, he showed no signs of discomfort that would usually accompany a wounded or disfigured leg. Psychosomatic then? All of a sudden, realization hit Sherlock over the head.

The boy had a straight backed posture, while the rest of them slouched, showing that he was more used to strict discipline than even his father. He had a worried look in his eyes as he glanced around them, though they became fond when he looked at the little girl (possibly a sister) clinging to his arm. Said girl wailed "But they'll eat him alive" and the boy scrunched up his nose in a way that was heart wrenchingly familiar.

 _John_ , his brain supplied unhelpfully as his heart started doing its best imitation of a beached narwhale. That is to say, flopping around heavily and uselessly. His mouth was open and gaping. John looked very much like his old self, like Sherlock. Though Sherlock had originally thought that it was only a freak coincidence that he so closely resembled his past life. Afterall, Greg was a girl now and Mycroft wasn't pudgy.

But Sherlock smiled at the boy who was so very much, _John_. Somewhat stocky, but soft—not chubby, just soft. His eyes were the same bright blue. His nose was still just as expressive. John ran passed into the barrier with his sister and Sherlock soon followed, owls in hand. Though, he walked right passed John, who was saying one last good-bye to his family, after the parents had come through, and boarded the train. He chose the first compartment that was completely empty.

And waited.

He watched through the window as John escaped his clingy parents and followed his brothers onto the train. As soon as John was within reach, Sherlock threw open the compartment door, grabbed John by the arm.

****1047****

Ron stumbled into the small compartment, tripping over his bad leg, and ending up sprawled out on the floor. He groaned, thinking that it was his brothers trying to cheer him up. "Gits," Ron sighed, sitting up. He was facing the window, which let in light from the station. Whoever had pulled him in was standing quietly behind him. Ron got unsteadily to his feet and turned around.

"Fred, George, what's the…" Ron stopped talking.

In front of him was a tiny boy. He was shorter than Ron by half a head, and Ron was by no means a tall boy. The other child had pale skin, stick-thin limbs and a sharp angular face. His hair was thick, black, curly and untamed. His eyes were a ghostly, glowing vivid green that seemed to flash silver. But then there was the boy's clothes…he wore a long _familiar_ coat, despite it being late summer, and a blue scarf around his neck. On his legs were pressed black slacks and over those was a white, silk button up. There was no doubt who this boy was.

Déjà vu hit him. This was so like when Sherlock had come back from the dead, back when he'd been dating Mary (who he'd divorced after she shot Sherlock). Leave it to his best friend to defy death not once, but twice. There was no way this was anyone but Sherlock. The boy stood there, looking both lost and confident but completely unsure of what to do now. John slowly stepped forward and cupped Sherlock's cheek with an outstretched palm. Sherlock tilted his head, to lean into the touch. His eyes were wide and questioning. "Sherlock…" John breathed.

Sherlock's face broke into a wide smile "I found you, Doctor". With a muffled sob, John tackled Sherlock in a fierce hug, his arms wrapping around his friend's skinny frame, his face pressed to the crook of Sherlock's neck. Sherlock returned the pressure almost desperately. Somehow, they managed to sit down on a seat without disentangling themselves, and they stayed like that for a long while, neither of them noticing when the train had started moving.

"I missed you," John whispered, after their anguished clinging had softened to simply having their arms hanging around each other. "I missed you so, so much." Sherlock said nothing, but nuzzled his face into John's chest, breathing deeply in contentment. "I'd heard about reincarnation stories before…I know how rare it is…I was certain I'd never see you again."

"Oh, please John," Sherlock huffed and John smiled at how young he sounded. _Merlin_ , how young they _were_. "I never doubted I'd find you. I was lost without my blogger." John smiled, yanking Sherlock closer so that the smaller boy was practically on his lap. Sherlock didn't even protest, just burrowing into the warmth of John's sweater. John felt so much more content than he had in years as he ran a hand along Sherlock's back. The smaller boy sighed happily, and John got the impression that if Sherlock were a cat, he'd be purring.

Suddenly, a thought struck him and he stiffened. "John?" Sherlock tried to get his attention. "John, what's wrong?"

"I didn't think I'd ever find you," John said, croaking slightly.

"Yes, you said…" Sherlock searched John's face and the ex-Doctor saw exactly when realization dawned in his friend's eyes. "You told someone you remembered."

"Yes. The Potion's Master. Professor Snape."

"Interesting." Sherlock said, his face growing thoughtful, before sliding off of John and climbing up onto the opposite seat to reach into the overhead. John felt slightly affronted that this news merited such little reaction as Sherlock rummaged around the luggage area blindly.

"That's it?"

"Should there be more?"

John smiled at the typical Sherlockian answer, but soon decided that if Sherlock wasn't bothered by it, then John wouldn't be either. "I bought you something," Sherlock said, surprising John yet again. "You know, since I never doubted I'd find you" he said pointedly. John blushed at the non-to-subtle tease. Sherlock pulled a wire cage down from above and settled it on the seat next to John. Inside were two owls, one white and one dark grey. "This is Hedwig," Sherlock said, stroking the white one through the cage. "And this is Ian," he brushed the other's belly with a finger. "He's yours."

"I have a familiar, but I've always wanted and owl." John said, opening the cage so that he could better pet his new fowl. "My older brother, Percy, gave me his old rat, Scabbers." John produced the rat, which Sherlock barely looked at before asking for John to describe his life so far and then John insisting he do the same. After an hour of them both talking, Sherlock felt guilty for being the indirect cause of John's pain and John felt guilty for being so depressed and miserable when Sherlock clearly had the worse end of the deal.

"Of course _you'd_ end up being Harry Bloody Potter," John summed it all up with a laugh, deciding not to worry about how he was going to murder the Dursley's for now. Perhaps he could convince his mum to let Sherlock stay at the Burrow in the summer.

"My thoughts exactly," drawled a voice from the now open compartment door. A lone, pale boy stood there. Ron recognized him from the papers, Draco Malfoy. They'd never met in person, but Ron know their fathers hated each other. "John, I take it? It's too bad we don't run in the same circles; it would have been nice to talk about before with someone."

John's eyes widened. "MYCROFT?" the boy nodded. John grinned, somehow Mycroft as a boy was nowhere _near_ as frightening as he had been in their previous life. Ron Weasley rose to his feet, extending a hand to Draco Malfoy, which the boy took almost warmly.

"I must apologize, Sherlock," Mycroft said stiffly as he released John's hand. "It seems you were right, after all."

"I told you he wasn't ordinary," Sherlock sniffed petulantly as he cradled Hedwig in his lap. John looked from Mycroft to Sherlock.

"You two _knew_ the other had been reincarnated as well?" he asked incredulously before realizing how strange that sentence was. Both ex-Holmes men gave him a look that clearly said _obviously._

"Oh, Greg, too." Sherlock said off-handedly. "She should be along soon enough." John huffed out a laugh, shaking his head.

"You've got his name down, after all these years. But now you're confusing his gender?" Sherlock rolled his eyes at John as Mycroft sat himself down beside his brother. He shook his head.

"He was reincarnated as Hermione Jean Granger. A muggle-born witch. We've been in contact for the last six years via emails on private messages."

"Six years?" John asked, somewhat jealous…alright, incredibly jealous. Though he felt better when one glance at Mycroft told him that the Malfoy heir felt the exact same way. Sherlock remained oblivious as ever as he only nodded, going on to tell them about 'Gremione's' dentist parents and how she'd been stalking Donavan and Anderson all these years from afar. And how their old flat was now a memorial.

Mycroft was in the middle of describing his new life when there came a knock on the door which slid open before John could grant permission. There stood an athletic looking girl with extremely short hair, tanned skin and a bossy expression. She was already wearing her uniform robes and had a pencil tucked behind one ear. Next to her was a chubby boy with dark hair and baby blue eyes, who was wringing his hands.

"Have any of you seen a toad? Sherlock!" the girl cried suddenly, a grin splashing on her face as she charged forward to embrace her friend. "It's good to see you face to face!" Greg murmured holding Sherlock's tiny frame to her chest. Greg sat back and looked Sherlock up and down, then she ran her hands through Sherlock's unruly hair. "You're so tiny," she mused to herself.

"Likewise, Greg," Sherlock said solemnly, though John saw some amusement in his friend's bright eyes. "What is the toad's name?" he asked the new boy.

"T-Trevor" the boy said. Sherlock nodded, pulling out his wand, gently pushing 'Hermione' onto the seat next to Ron.

"Accio, Trevor the Toad" For two seconds there was no reaction to this, and Sherlock looked distinctly disappointed. But then… _Splat_. Against the window of the door, a toad suddenly smacked against it.

"Trevor!" the boy cried in alarm as he opened the door to peel his familiar off the glass. Luckily, the toad seemed to be only dazed, not injured. "Thank you…Sherlock, was it? I'm Neville, Neville Longbottom. It's so cool that you can already do magic like that. Gran wouldn't let me try anything until I got to Hogwarts. Said I'd poke my eye out with a wand. Honestly…" The boy huffed in resignation, then offered a hand to shake, which Sherlock did after a moment.

"Yes, I'm Sherlock. I take it from the way you said your last name and your fine clothing that you come from an old wizarding family? Light, if your wand material is anything to go by. Obviously I can't see the core, but Applewood is as light as they come. You're not very confident, though. You should be. Your magic is powerful…wait…" Sherlock frowned. "That's not your wand is it?"

"H-How did you know?" Neville asked in surprise.

Sherlock waved that away. "It doesn't matter. What does matter is that you get one that suits you. Perhaps I can help you with that at some point. That wand with have to do until then."

"Gran wants me to deal with this one," Neville said, fingering the hilt, which was sticking out of his pocket, gently. Mycroft was looking at Sherlock in fond amusement as Sherlock deduced their new 'friend'. John was just glad that Sherlock wasn't being as cruel about it as he usually was. But then, this _was_ a child, so Sherlock was probably purposefully censoring his deductions.

"Gran? Not raised by your parents…so that wand must belong to one of them. They must either be dead or absent, be not estranged, making your grandmother overly sentimental in wanting you to be more like them which prompts her into forcing that wand onto you."

"Yes!" Neville looked amazed.

"Not very smart," Sherlock shook his head and John hoped that that comment wasn't an insult directed at Neville. "I still stand by my opinion that you need one of your own. I suggest you ask a professor when we get to Hogwarts. Stop pacing, Greg, and sit down." Sherlock snapped at Gremione who had stood back up and was anxiously stepping around, looking like she wanted to say something else. Sherlock moved across the seat so that he was next to John. Gremione sat down by Draco, and then patted the seat next to her. Neville sat obediently, though he looked wary of Draco.

"You're all friends, then?"

Gremione nodded. "I haven't seen them in ages, though." Neville looked confused but didn't ask any questions, instead listening as John prompted Sherlock to explain what he knew about want cores. After a few moments Draco joined in. When they were nearly there, Hermione prompted Ron to find his brothers, so that he could change into his school robes before they got to the school. But Sherlock had stubbornly refused to put on the robes, saying that he was fine as he was.

****1047*****

The train pulled to a stop, and a voice informed all of the students that they must leave their luggage there to be taken up to their rooms separately. Sherlock huffed as he unshrunk his own trunk with a tap of his wand. He gently prodded Hedwig back into her cage. The little snowy gave an indignant _hoot_ but did as she was bidden. John did the same with Ian, then closed the wire door. "They'll be alright, then?" he asked. Mycroft sighed but nodded, he was the only one who bothered answering. Gremione and Neville were soon caught away in the stream of students that was gushing down the hall of the train. Mycroft stayed steadfastly directly in front of John and Sherlock, seemingly unaffected by the other children pushing and shoving past.

Sherlock had a hand slipped through one of John's, and was holding on in a death grip. Had the Consulting Detective tried to do this in their past life, John might have—to his shame—jerked his hand away and lectured about the inappropriateness of it. John might even have shouted out to anyone nearby who might listen how "not gay" he was. However, John did none of those things. Instead, John only tightened his own grip on the smaller boy…just to ensure they weren't separated again, obviously.

A giant of a man stood on the platform, swinging a huge glowing lantern that was spilling yellow sparks. The children stood back a bit from him, wary. All except for Sherlock who dragged Ron up to the front, still holding his hand, and greeted the giant with cordial formality. The giant wasn't nearly as eloquent in his salutations. "'ullo, 'arry!" he boomed, his voice echoing around the stone corridor of the train station. "Alri'gh there?" he asked, a kindly light in his black eyes. Sherlock assured him that he was, and no sooner than he had, then did the giant spin around, swinging a huge arm to bit the children follow him.

"Who's that, then?" Ron asked Harry.

"Hagrid," Harry replied simply. "He's the one the school sent to intimidate my relatives into allowing my attendance. A bit of an oaf, incredibly stupid, but fairly tolerable." Sherlock smiled at his friend. "Like you"

John willed himself not to smile, instead forcing a scowl and whacking Sherlock over the head, using the hand that wasn't still clutching onto Sherlock like he was a John's lifeline. 'Hagrid' led the children down a quaint forest path that was illuminated by nothing but the celestial lights overhead and Hagrid's lantern. And if John clung a bit tighter to Sherlock, it was only to ensure that neither of them stumbled. Soon enough, they came to a stony beach where a fleet of rickety looking rowboats, minus the oars, bobbed on the water of a black lake. "N' more than four t' a boat!" Hagrid informed them. To their left, Sherlock noticed Gremione and Neville getting into a boat that already held two petite Indian girls. Sherlock dragged John over to one that looked marginally less like it's capsize under their weight.

Mycroft was following them, but, for once, Sherlock found he didn't mind. Sherlock only pressed closer to John's side, pretending to be scooting as far away from his brother as he could. Sherlock wasn't faking the scowl he gave Mycroft when his brother flashed him that smug, knowing look. Just before the boat began to drift off, a tall boy with dark skin and darker hair spiked up on his head clambered into their boat, sitting down next to Mycroft.

"There you are, Malfoy" the boy said. "Been looking all over the train for you. I thought you were supposed to sit with Pansy and I."

"Whatever gave you that impression, Zabini?" Draco asked in a drawl. "Potter, Weasley, this is Blaise Zabini. An acquaintance of mine. Zabini, this is Harry Potter and Ronal Weasley." There was shock on the boy's face.

"Really, you're actually Harry Potter?" then Blaise frowned. "Where are your robes?"

"Wizarding fashion is ridiculous, impractical, uncomfortable and unfashionable," Sherlock sniffed. "I wouldn't be caught dead in them."

"You'll get in trouble," the boy warned halfheartedly, though looking like he completely agreed.

"What is the worst they can do? It's not like they can kick the Boy-Who-Lived out of Hogwarts for violating dress code." Sherlock scoffed, hiding a smirk as he saw John trying not to giggle out of the corner of his eyes. John's arm tightened around him, and Sherlock most definitely did _not_ lean into the touch. Blaise looked back and forth between the two of them, then shrugged to himself.

"Point there, Potter." Blaise said.

"Call me Sherlock."

"Why?"

"Because 'Harry' is stupid."

That surprised a laugh out of their new acquaintance. "Alright then, Sherlock. Call me Blaise. You can as well, Weasley. You two friends?"

"Obviously," John drawled, mimicking Sherlock's annoyed tone. Mycroft cracked a grin at this. "Call me John."

"I thought your name was Ronald."

"It is."

Blaise was quiet for a moment, looking confused. Then his giggled a bit and said "You're strange. I hope we can be friends." John, being the amicable person he was, agreed immediately, while Sherlock pretended he hadn't heard. Blaise seemed to only find this amusing.


	4. Thrice-Borne

**Hey guys! Thanks you everyone who reviewed! You guys are amaze! Special thanks to the people who PMed me with ideas and requests, and I'm sorry I couldn't incorporate everything you guys suggested into the story, but I'm doing my best! Hope you all continue to like it!**

 **SB: just out of curiosity, what about the fic were you afraid would be disappointing? Anyway, I'm glad it's not!**

 **Mia: OMG! I love that idea! Because of your review, a name from canon popped into my head, and so I'm going to change around the ages of some sidecharacters to incorporate this, but I love it so much! Thank you thank you!**

 **Hi: Hmm…will Mycroft rule the wizarding world…? Well, I would expect he'd certainly try. xD**

 **Farawisa: Oops, thanks for pointing that out! Just went back and fixed it for ya!**

 **Just in general: Yes, Mrs. H** ** _has been_** **reincarnated, and she will be a somewhat integral part of this fic. She's just lost memory of her previous life. Also, thank you so much for the birthday wishes, you guys make me happy! Hope you enjoy this chapter!**

Sherlock still hadn't let go of John's hand by the time Professor McGonagall left the new students to their own devices in the entrance hall. In fact, he was huddling so close, with his nose pressed to John's chest, that John had his free arm slung over Sherlock's shoulders. Both boys were ignoring the puzzled glances everyone else was giving them. Their peers were already muttering about 'those weirdos hanging off of each other', but honestly John couldn't care less. And he was fairly certain Sherlock was simply ignoring them all.

Sherlock _did_ look surprised, though, when several ghosts floated through the walls, coming into the hall, levitating above their heads. His eyes were as wide as saucers as the two ghosts argued over someone named "Peeves". John wasn't surprised, as his brothers had told him about the Fat Friar and Nearly Headless Nick _ages_ ago. "How do we get sorted?" John heard Greg…Hermione?...ask no one in particular.

"I don't know," admitted John quietly. "Fred and George said something about a troll. But I'm pretty sure they were joking." Sherlock looked moderately interested at that, but the Mycroft scoffed.

"Please," he drawled. "I assure you, it's nothing of the sort."

Before John could ask what it was, then, if not trial by troll, the doors opened and McGonagall requested they all follow her. They were led into a cathedral like room with orbs of light floating above tables laden with golden plates and goblets. Hundreds of children sat, clad in identical black robes, staring at them as they walked in a semblance of a line down the aisle between the two center tables. "When I call your name," McGonagall said to the nervous first years, "step forward and sit yourself on the stool." Then she cleared her throat before pulling a scroll of parchment out of one of her billowing sleeves and announced "Abbot, Hannah!"

Sherlock ignored the slightly plump blonde girl approaching the stool in favor of staring up at the sky/ceiling. He remembered reading about it in a book he'd acquired in Diagon Alley, and apparently Gremione had read the same one, as she was spouting the useless information she'd read to anyone nearby. As McGonagall called out "Brown, Lavender" his eyes drifted over to the teacher's table. In the high backed chair in the center, which was ornately decorated and gleaming all gold and silver, was Albus Dumbledore. The Headmaster caught his gaze and nodded to him with a twinkle in his eyes. Sherlock kept his face impassive. The man looked like Santa.

Sherlock didn't like Santa. Bribing children to be boring with useless garbage, breaking and entering on an annual basis, not to mention the replicas at malls and holiday festivities were always mean or patronizing. One of his fondest memories of (his first) childhood was of he and Mycroft setting up 'security measures' every Christmas. After all, Mummy and Father had already bought (and unsuccessfully hidden) all of the presents they'd asked for. They didn't need a fat man's bribery. "Creevy, Colin!" Sherlock was pulled from his musing for a moment as a familiar looking blonde boy stumbled forward.

This Santa seemed particularly suspicious…and familiar. Another reason Sherlock decided he didn't like him, was that he couldn't deduce much of anything about him. The man had a sweet tooth, as indicated by stains on his sleeves and robe collar by (what looked like) something yellow and sticky. Some sort of candy, maybe? The man gave fond looks at everyone and everything, however the sweep of his gaze was calculating. Manipulative, but genuine? Genuinely manipulative for sure, you could tell by the way the other teachers acted towards him. Resentment and exasperation, but affection and respect…by almost all of them.

The man in the turban sitting three chairs down to the left seemed frightened of the man. Interesting. The man was _spacey_ to borrow a word from John's horrible vocabulary. His eyes would go unfocused, as the man thought about something deeply. Then he'd jump with surprise when someone spoke to him. When he thought no one was looking, a hard edge would enter his eyes and he'd sweep the room with his gaze, much like the headmaster had done. Over all, this man was acting decidedly guilty. Best avoid both the man in the turban, as well as the headmaster.

Sitting to the right of Turban man was a face Sherlock recognized as Professor Snape, the Potions Master. The man was staring directly at him, a thoughtful look on his face. "Granger, Hermione" McGonagall called out. Sherlock looked away from the headtable to watch Greg's sorting. The old witch placed and even older hat on Greg's head. Sherlock watched, fascinated as Gremione's whole body tensed with shock and worry. Her fingers were gripped tightly around the edge of the stool's seat; her knuckles were white. John's grip on Sherlock's hand tightened minutely. "GRYFFINDOR" the hat bellowed. Greg shot Sherlock and John a wide grin before bouncing off to the Gryffindor table. Sherlock snuck another glace at Snape, the man was still staring at him, his hand rubbing his chin absently. Before long "Longbottom, Neville!" went to "GRYFFINDOR" and "Malfoy, Draco!" went to "SLYTHERIN".

When "Potter, Harry!" was called out, Sherlock didn't react at first. Honestly he kept trying to delete the knowledge that that horribly _dull_ name belonged to him. It wasn't until John jerked his hand sharply and pushed him forward that Sherlock remembered at all. And while he was far from embarrassed, he was slightly uncomfortable by the staring, and the muttering, and the whispering. He was used to being different, but this was beyond being different. Sherlock felt like an animal on display to be petted at the zoo.

"Harry Potter? _The_ Harry Potter?"

"…Boy-Who-Lived"

"Think he'll sign my textbook?"

"What's he wearing?"

"By Merlin's balls he's cute"

"He's rather small for a Dark Lord Vanquisher"

"And how many of those have you encountered?"

Blocking out the sound of whispers and idiocy, Sherlock climbed up onto the stool as gracefully as he could manage. The hat was plopped down onto his head, and slipped down covering his eyes and ears. "Well, you're the third one today! Makes one wonder what in Morgana's name Fate is up to."

" _What do you mean_?"

"Nothing, nothing…now, where to put you?"

" _Gryffindor_." Sherlock told the hat. " _And there'll be another boy, John Watson, who is like me. Put him there as well. I'm fairly certain he's got the traits for Gryffindor anyway, but just in case…"_

 _"Why Gryffindor, young Thrice-Borne?"_

 _"If I go into Slytherin, I'll be gawked at; accused of being a Dark Lord or something of the sort. Furthermore, you put Mycroft in that House. It's unacceptable that I go there as well. As for Hufflepuff…you can't really be considering putting me there."_

 _"No,_ " the hat agreed. " _But then there's always Ravenclaw. You fit right in there."_

Sherlock scoffed audibly. " _I highly doubt that. Chances are I'd just alienate myself and make my 'peers' jealous."_

 _"Alright, alright, no need to be huffy Thrice-borne."_ The hat sounded amused. Sherlock was annoyed. He didn't like it when people were amused by him, because he was never trying to be amusing…unless it was for John. " _From what I can see, I could just as easily put your Doctor into any of the Houses. Except Slytherin, of course."_ Sherlock barely had time to register his rising panic than had the hat shouted out "GRYFFINDOR!"

The red and gold table erupted into cheers. John's twin brothers clapped each other on the back screaming, "WE GOT POTTER! WE GOT POTTER!" Sherlock sullenly glared at the hat before tromping down the steps and plunking down near the mischievous looking redheads, across the table from Greg. "Oi, we're not that bad, no need to look so grouchy."

"It was being rude," Sherlock snapped, still glaring at the hat. Several people close by looked confused, though Greg seemed to understand. The twins only laughed.

"It was a bit rude to us, too, mate" said one.

"Wanted to put us in Slytherin"

"Too cunning for Gryffindor, it said."

"Too ambitious for Gryffindor, it said"

"But now look at us!"

"We're basically Gryffindor's mascots!"

This declaration was met by a round of laughter as they introduced themselves as Fred and George. Another red head, who looked to be about fifteen and was wearing a prefect badge that had very obviously been shined recently held out a hand pompously."

"Percy Weasley, prefect of Gryffindor." The boy introduced. Sherlock wouldn't have shaken his hand if it weren't for the fact he was related to John. "You'll soon find that not all of Gryffindor are noisy buffoons…" Percy trailed off and looked around at the table. "Just most of them."

"Awww, are we being too noisy for perfect prefect Percy?" asked Fred and George in unison. Then Fred looked to his brother. "Say _that_ ten times fast." To which George began to rapidly mouth "Perfect prefect Percy".

Sherlock was mostly ignoring them as he will the sorting to go faster. A Hufflepuff was sorted. Four Ravenclaw in a row. A Slytherin. Another Hufflepuff. A Slytherin, and then "Weasley, Ronald" John stepped confidently up to the stool, a smile on his lips.

"Ron…" Percy breathed in awe and confusion.

"His limp is gone" Fred gasped while George just gaped wordlessly. Greg looked up at them.

"Limp?" she asked.

"He's always had one," said George offhandedly.

"Since the day he was born," added Fred. "Always looked like every step hurt him." Sherlock observed Severus Snape looking towards John with confused interest as well. The smile on John's face grew as he listened to the Hat speak in his mind. Sherlock held his breath, clenching his fists.

"GRYFFINDOR!" Sherlock breathed a sigh of relief as John handed the hat back to McGonagall for "Zabini, Blaise" to be sorted to Slytherin. John sank down next to Sherlock and Fred, automatically clutching Sherlock's hand beneath the table.

"So, Ronnikins," George began casually as Dumbledore stood and announced several rules to be followed, and introduced the new "Defence Against the Arts" teacher. "How're you feeling?"

Sherlock knew that it was then John realized about his limp, even though John was good at not letting it show too much on his face. "I feel great!" John said honestly. "Better than ever, like a million weights rolled off my back." Sherlock hid a smile at the genuine joy in his friend's voice. Percy, George and Fred all shared a significant look. There was disbelief on their face, some suspicious, but mostly relief. So, they'd all been worried about "Ronald". Sherlock was glad John had been placed into such a loving home. The Headmaster spoke once more, just a bunch of gibberish that Sherlock supposed was supposed to be funny, and the table erupted. Mounds and mounds of food appeared, probably teleported from somewhere Sherlock thought. No way Dumbledore was simply able to conjure up this much food, otherwise world hunger wouldn't be an issue.

That or the wizards simply didn't care.

John struggled to serve his own food and eat it with just his left hand, so that he didn't have to let go of Sherlock. Sherlock let this go on for about five more minutes, then he tugged his own hand away to grab a jug of…was this pumpkin juice? John pouted for a moment, then went back to eating. John occasionally put food on Sherlock's pate, then jabbed him in the ribs until the smaller boy began to nibble at it. He wasn't hungry, but Sherlock knew logically his body needed the extra nutrients to recover from a lifetime of near starvation. To retaliate, Sherlock ended up taking most of what he ate off of John's plate. But the other boy didn't really seem to mind, he just added more to his own and kept eating.

Sherlock realized about half way through the meal (and here he started mentally kicking himself) that the three older Weasley's were giving them curious looks. Sherlock put down the chicken leg he'd been chewing and looked up at Percy. "What?" he asked.

"You're friends with Ron, then?" Percy asked cautiously. Sherlock scoffed.

"Obviously."

Percy scowled. "How's it you met Harry, Ron?" he asked his youngest brother. Ron swallowed the mouthful of potpie before he spoke.

"Just ran into him on the train," John answered. "By the way, he doesn't like to be called 'Harry'. He likes to be called "Sherlock"." Percy started a bit, and three feet away a jug of pumpkin juice exploded. Percy blushed then waved a wand to clean it up. Fred and George's mouths were gaping.

"Sherlock?" they both asked. Sherlock turned to give John an exasperated look, clearly Sherlock had just realized John had told more than a few people about him. On one hand, Sherlock was flattered. On the other hand, it would put them under unwanted surveillance by the Weasley family.

"What of it?" Sherlock asked. "Harry's such a dull name." Sherlock sighed, it was even getting dull just calling it dull. He needed to start using a new word: Tedious, monotonous, wearisome, humdrum, lackluster…Sherlock's train of thought drifted away from the table as he entered his mind palace to shuffle through the many shelves, looking for a new word to replace "dull" with. "Insipid" sounded more cutting, "trite" was another option…

John watched him fondly, recognizing the vacant look in his eyes for what it was. The blank expression, however, made Greg start worrying. "Is he alright?" she asked from across the table. "He looks like he's about to pass out."

"Yeah," John said. "He's just thinking."

"About what?" Fred asked as George said "Is it really that hard for him?" John snorted out a laugh as he took Sherlock's hand again then resumed eating with his left. He'd forgotten to be discrete about it and realized his messup when Percy raised both eyebrows. John refused to react, pretending like he noticed nothing.

****1047*****

Sherlock wasn't as much in awe of the magnificent hallways as his first year peers, but he still found himself mildly impressed at the moving pictures. He vaguely wondered if the pictures would feel pain if you burned a piece of them, or peeled off part of their pain with a knife. He then wondered if anyone would notice if one of the many, many pictures in the hall went missing.

John seemed to read his mind, which would have been disconcerting if the fact hadn't made Sherlock so pleased. John saw Sherlock staring with a sort of "sadistic grin" ("I don't _grin_ , John") and tugged on his arm sharply. "Don't even think about it," John ordered him in his Captain Watson authoritative voice. Sherlock rolled his eyes, but allowed John to pull him away and towards the rest of the group.

The Gryffindor common rooms was smaller than Sherlock had expected, what with an approximate seventy to eighty five students in the House (allowing an average of twelve or so per year). Despite its small-ish size, however, it was very warm and comfortable, with a roaring fire and plush sofas. John looked around him, obviously pleased with his new surroundings. Sherlock only listened with half an ear as perfect prefect Percy directed them to their rooms. Sherlock wasn't tired, so he reasoned that he'd explore the castle as everyone slept. He'd just wait until John was asleep.

Unfortunately, John pulled his mind reading trick again.

"You can't go wandering, Sherlock," John told him once they were alone. Neville and Dean were in the bathroom brushing their teeth, Seamus was in the shower. John had gotten ready for bed quickly, and Sherlock had simply changed into nightclothes. Sherlock scowled at him. "No, don't argue." John told him, holding up a hand to halt any arguments that might come out of Sherlock. "I just found you, I don't want to fight. But I also know that Filch will be running rounds, and if you get into too much trouble, you'll get kicked out. And if you get kicked out and sent back to the muggles, who knows when I'll see you again."

Sherlock scoffed. "I'm the Chosen One," Sherlock said, puffing out his chest with a false bravado. "They're not going to kick me out." But John's words left a niggling doubt in his mind. Sherlock sighed heavily, flopping down on his back in his bed. "Fine," he said.

John gave him a suspicious look, then climbed across his own bed and clambered into Sherlock's. Sherlock gave him a puzzled look as John ripped out the sheets and blankets from under Sherlock. "What are you doing?" he asked as John made himself comfortable against Sherlock's pillows. John patted the mattress next to him.

"I don't trust you," John said with a deceptively sweet smile. "Go to sleep."

"I don't need to sleep; I slept last night."

"Go to sleep."

"Honestly, John."

"Sleep"

"Why?"

"Now."

"I don't feel like it, I'm perfectly fine. No reason to shut down my transport just because you're afraid I'll fall off a staircase in the dark."

"Thank you for that image, dear, I needed that right before bed. Now shut up and lie down before I tell Mycroft."

"Why on earth would I care?"

"I'll not talk to you tomorrow, for a whole day."

"If you think you can manage it, _dear_ , go ahead."

"Git"

"John"

"Prat"

"John"

"Sleep."

" _John_ "

John grabbed Sherlock by the arm and tugged. John, being the bigger of the two, managed to pull Sherlock up far enough to tuck the blankets successfully around the smaller boy. Sherlock grumbled the entire time, but let him. John then wrapped his arms around Sherlock's pointy frame. "Let go of me."

"No."

"…fine"

"Goodnight to you, too, dear."


	5. Classes and Cuddling

Sherlock didn't know whether to feel surprised or resigned when he woke up the next morning, still trapped in John's embrace. Sherlock hummed softly to himself, closing his eyes and relishing in the warmth. Perhaps "trapped" was too harsh a word…he thought to himself. Ron snored softly, his head lolled to the side on Sherlock's pillow, his cheek pressed against the top of Sherlock's hair. Sherlock's arms were stuck underneath of John's torso, so it's not like he could move anyway, he reasoned as he started to drift back asleep.

"Are you two _cuddling_?" asked an incredulous voice. Sherlock's brain sluggishly dragged the boy's name to the forefront of his mind. Dean, he thought. Sherlock didn't bother opening his eyes to respond.

"Obviously," Sherlock said, his voice half sigh. He felt John move beneath him, starting to wake up. There was a noise of disturbed curiosity from Dean, when somebody threw a pillow at the tall, dark boy. Dean cried out in indignation, and Sherlock opened his eyes in time to see Dean scoop up the offending pillow to throw it back to Neville.

"Leave them alone," said the pudgy boy with equal amounts of meek trembling and angry righteousness. "They're best friends they are. And Hermione told me they've been separated for a long time. I think if I had a friend like that, I wouldn't want to be very far from them, either!" Neville's face was flushed red, and his eyes were averted towards the floor, but his stance was determined as he picked his pillow back up and placed it on his bed.

Ron, who was now fully away, gave Longbottom a grateful smile, and Harry gave him a slow nod. Seamus only shrugged, coming out of the bathroom with Colin. "Me favorite uncle's married to a man," he said simply. "Don't bother me none, so long as neither of you turn out to be peeking Tom's."

Sherlock scoffed. "Even if we were, we wouldn't waste our time with the likes of you." He sneered. To his surprise, Seamus only laughed. Neville blushed harder, muttering something under his breath as he picked up his area, folding his pajamas neatly and placing them into his trunk. Ron gave Sherlock one final squeeze, then slid out of bed to get ready. Sherlock soon followed reluctantly to groom himself.

At breakfast, Gremione descended upon them. "Rumor is you two spent the night cuddling," she teased, nudging Ron with her elbow. "Making it official?"

"Yes, Gremione," Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Ron and I are officially sick of insipid people making tiresome observations. We weren't _cuddling_ , John was restraining me. I wanted to explore, and he wanted me to sleep. So he sat on me."

"I did _not_!" came Ron's denial.

"All night?" asked Gremione.

"All night," confirmed Sherlock.

"I _did not_!" Ron cried. Neville, who'd sat down next to Gremione, giggled a bit. "Though this little lion was quick in defending us when Dean started teasing Sherlock this morning. Fierce, this one." Neville beamed at him as he scooped some fruit onto his plate.

"It was nothing," he said shyly. "I just don't like seeing my friend's get picked on. You two weren't doing anything wrong. And, as far as I know, there's no rule against it for two boys…or two girls for that matter." Neville said thoughtfully.

"Bit of an oversight," said Gremione with a suggestive quirk of the eyebrow at Ron and Harry. "But I don't recall a rule like that, either. And if there is, you can always claim ignorance and you'd be let off easily."

"Are you boyfriends, then?" asked Seamus suddenly as he sat next to Ron on the opposite side of Sherlock. John started to choke on his oatmeal. Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"No," said Sherlock. "We're _best friends_. There is a minor difference."

"Minor?"

"We're not as gross."

Lavender Brown started giggling, some ways down the table, and tried to cover it up by taking a sip of pumpkin juice.

"Yeah," said Dean sitting next to Neville. "Boys are yucky." Neville rolled his eyes, then Dean's expression turned serious. "Sorry about…you know…I just thought it was kinda weird at first…I didn't realize…" Dean awkwardly trailed off. "So…yeah…friends?" he asked, flinching a bit at the ridiculousness of the statement. Sherlock rolled his eyes as John immediately agreed. Parvati and Colin joined Lavender, and all nine Gryffindor first years lapsed into childish conversation as they ate.

"So you're the actual Harry Potter?" asked Colin Creevy, who's come in late last night. Apparently, he'd been caught wandering around taking pictures of everything by Professor McGonagall. "I've read all about you. My family's all muggle, and so when I was found out to be a wizard, Mum and Dad went crazy buying all sorts of wizard stuff; mainly books but nick-knacks, too. About half of what we bought, though, mentioned you at some point. Can we take a picture together? You, me and your friend? Mum'll never believe that I actually share a dorm with you.

Sherlock was tempted to say 'no', but something stayed the insult at his lips. There was something uncomfortably familiar about Mr. Creevy. "Sure" said Sherlock, plastering on one of his more charming smiles. "So long as I can have a copy. I don't have any of John and I, together." Colin beamed.

"Of course," he agreed immediately as John gave Sherlock a confused look. "I can take one of just the two of you. And these two older boys, Fred and Geoff I think, said they knew how to make the pictures move like the paintings on the walls. I'll get it to you after it develops!" Colin raised the old fashioned camera, which hung about his neck on a strap, to his eyes. John sent Colin a look that Sherlock couldn't decipher (which was odd in and of itself), and then placed a possessive arm tight around his shoulders. John gave a smug grin when Sherlock placed his own arm around John's waist. Sherlock grinned. John was jealous? Of Creevy? There was some sort of joke in there, Sherlock thought. The universe was making a funny, he just didn't have the whole joke yet. He'd figure it out though.

The camera flashed, and then Colin passed it to Gremione, who was offering to take the picture for them. Colin got on Sherlock's free side and, without invitation, put an arm through Sherlock's. Sherlock turned towards him and smiled. The familiarity was nagging at his brain, but Sherlock didn't know where he'd seen Colin before. He wanted to keep him close, to see if he could figure it out. But then he also found the strange, hyper, friendly boy to be somewhat endearing. Yet, on the other hand, his instincts were revolting against the idea of adding Colin to his little cluster of (dare he say) friends. After all, Colin seemed to be perfectly ordinary.

The camera flashed again. "Oy, I want to try the camera!" said Dean. Ron rolled his eyes. "I know, I take a picture, selfie style, of the lot of us!"

"Great idea!" said Colin as the Sherlock, Ron and Neville all asked "What?"

"Just gather up in a clump," Gremione ordered, probably trying to sound authoritative but ending up sounding bossy. They didn't notice the teachers all watching them in amusement as they took picture after picture of their group, Colin looking extremely happy with it all.

"Mum was afraid I wouldn't make any friends, you see, being raised in the muggle world," Colin said. "Thought I'd be really different form everyone, coz my step-dad's just a milkman, and she's a librarian. Nothing exciting about my family at all. And then WHAMO! I'm a wizard!" Lavender patted him consolingly on the back.

"What's it like, being raised muggle?" she asked. "I'm a pureblood, so I've never even _seen_ a Muggle village. Father always said they're very primitive compared to us. Is that true, Colin?"

Colin hesitated. Seamus and Dean both snorted in laughter as Gremione looked mildly offended. "Actually," he said slowly, obviously not wanted to offend anybody. And the tone was so familiar that Sherlock was about to go mad from not knowing. "Most muggles would like the same of wizarding culture, to tell the truth." Then he was quick to explain. "I mean, quills and robes and torches, ancient castles and carriages. It's like something out of Muggle Fairy Stories. It's all quite charming, but Muggle life is a bit more…modern, I guess? Like, we used to use quills, but now we use pens. Writing things you don't have to dip in ink to refill," Colin explained upon seeing Lavender and Neville's confused faces. "And we use electric lights, rather than fire. Just little things like that."

"Do you have any brothers or sisters?" asked Gremione, hoping to move topics onto less awkward places. Colin looked relieved.

"Yeah, a half-brother named Denis. He's two years younger than me."

"Hey, Ron," interrupted Dean. "Seamus was telling me that someone told him that they heard you've got twelve brothers. Is that true?"

Ron rolled his eyes. "Feels like it sometimes, but no. Just five."

" _Just five_ " Dean repeated under his breath with wide eyes.

"And a sister," Ron added. "Ginny"

"Wow," Dean shook his head. "No wonder you're so cuddly. Elbow room must be non-existent in your house." Seamus gave Dean a dirty look and whacked him on the head with an empty goblet. But Ron only laughed.

"You're telling me!"

****1047****

First class of the semester was transfiguration. Sherlock, who had already read the entirety of that year's texts, was sitting there, bored, as McGonagall explained the contents of the first two chapters. Honestly, what was so complicated about visualizing something and waving a stick over something else. Because everything else included—the fancy incantations and complicated wand movements—were unnecessary if you willed something to transform enough.

Sherlock sighed, leaning his chin on his knuckles as he entertained himself by repeatedly prodding John, who was sitting next to him, in the leg with his foot. Ron, in demonstration of his near saintly levels of patience, only gave Sherlock a token eye roll before taking his best friend's hand into his own.

Which had been Sherlock's intention all along, obviously.

Finally, _finally_ , McGonagall was ready for the practical part of the lesson. "Children, kindly take out your wands. Mr. Finnegan and Mr. Finch-Fletchley," she looked first to Seamus, then to a Hufflepuff across the room. "Please pass out these match sticks to the class." She levitated a small match box to each of them as they grudgingly rose and began to hand each person one of the sticks. Sherlock twirled his wand absently in his fingertips as John pulled his own out (Willow, sturdy, fourteen inches, ashwinder core—good for healing).

Seamus placed the match stick in front of Sherlock. Before the other boy had even put John's down on the table, there was already a statuette of a skull sitting where the match had been. John and Seamus stared at it in surprise. Then Seamus shrugged and continued to pass out the matches. McGonagall hadn't noticed, as she was on the other side of the room.

John kicked Sherlock under the table, making the smaller boy yelp in pain and knock his knees against the bottom of the table. McGonagall whirled around to scold them for disrupting the class, but stopped when she saw the skull. "Mr. Potter" she said crisply. "Explain _why_ exactly you felt the need to bring a human skull to class?"

"I didn't" said Sherlock.

"Yes," McGonagall pinched her lips "you did. It's sitting right there, I can see it."

"I do not deny its presence," said Sherlock. "Nor to I debate whether you can or canot see it. I am, however, saying that I did not bring it to class. It's not even a proper skull: it's a transfigured matchstick." McGonagall's frown deepened.

"Transfigure it back, then." Sherlock sighed and lazily waved his wand. Sure enough, it shrunk smaller and smaller, then thinned out. Soon enough a small needle was sitting in it's place. McGonagall's eyes widened, then she chuckled.

"Just like your father," she said fondly. "If any task I give you, Mr. Potter, is too easy, just let me know and I'll assign something else. No need to show off." Sherlock sighed again, nodding. Gremione, who was sitting a couple seats down, looked frustrated at how easily Sherlock had done the assignment. She got her match transfigured, soon enough, into a gleaming needle, and John got his partially transformed (the end was pointy and it looked sort of grey).

Sherlock lost all interest in the lesson after giving up trying to explain to Ron how to transfigure his match. That is, until Seamus somehow managed to blow his up. "How'd you do it?" Sherlock asked eagerly. "It makes no logical sense! What were you thinking of? What wand movements did you do? What incantation did you say _exactly_?!" he bombarded Seamus with questions as McGonagall and John tried to put out the fire Seamus had lighted on Gremione's head.

"I dunno" Seamus scratched his head. "Just kinda wiggled it like this, a bit" Seamus demonstrated. "And I was concentrating on seeing it turn into a needle, in my mind's eyes like I heard you telling John…when all of a sudden I wondered what dynamite would taste like…"

"Like nitroglycerin, diatomaceous and sodium carbonate antacid I'd assume," Sherlock said. "But, continue"

"Well, that's it" Seamus said as Neville shrieked when the flame was inadvertently passed to his desk. "No sooner had I wondered that, my match turned into a needle…and then it just blew up!"

"Maybe you turned it into an explosive needle" suggested Lavender.

"Obviously" Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Seeing as how the needle _exploded_ " He then proceeded in waving his wand in a circular motion, the fire going out and the classroom righting itself all at once. McGonagall's eyes widened, then she straightened her robes and strode to the front of the class, awarding Gryffindor five points before assigning homework for that afternoon.

****1047*****

Herbology was the next class. Sherlock found it slightly more intriguing. The professor, one Pomona Sprout, announced that they would be discovering which common plants had magical properties over the course of the next few weeks. Of course, Sherlock already knew much of the information—having read not only all of the Herbology text books for that year, but also several extracurricular—but it was still interesting to see how normally mundane plants behaved when grown in a magical environment. For example, dandelions, when grown surrounded and tended by magic, developed the ability to roar.

Sherlock found it gratifying that it impressed Professor Sprout when he only referred to each plant by their Latin name, such as the Taraxacum Asteraceae, the Viola Violaceae, Convallaria majalis and the DigitalisPlantaginaceae, to name the plants covered in class that afternoon. By the time class was over, Neville, Gremione and Sherlock were the only ones who'd actually retained (or really understood) anything. But from the looks of the Professor, she seemed overly happy just to have such "Fine young scholars" in her class.

Charms went much the same way, which Sherlock mastering each spell given with little or no (usually the latter) instruction. Flitwick was so excited he fell off his stool with a little squeak. "Bravo, Mr. Potter, Bravo!" he cried. "I'd day that you're your mother's son, but my Merlin's beard you're as powerful as she ever was! My, my, she'd be proud of you!" The Ravenclaws sharing the class with them scowled maliciously at Sherlock, Gremione giving her old friend a little glare of her own before being the second in the class to succeed at the pelleorem charm and turn her vase transparent.

Ron rolled his eyes at the two of them before asking Sherlock to show him how it's done just one more time. Sherlock acted exasperated with him, but agreed anyway. Ron just snorted, knowing that Sherlock was enjoying showing off.

Of course, those classes didn't even hold a candle to what Sherlock did in History of Magic Class. As soon as he realized that the majority of the class would be taking a two hour long nap, instead of actually learning anything, Sherlock whipped out his wand and somehow managed to create a life-size illusion of the Goblin war Professor Binns was describing. Students watched with rapped fascination as the two goblin clans clashed together on the battlefield to the droning sound of Binns and the roar of their generals. Ron's jaw dropped when he realized that Sherlock was actually enjoying his little magic display.

He was practically dancing about the room as magic continually poured from his wand. The students were taking rapid notes, oohing and aahing over the sight of Ragnuk smiting Gzuk's head off his shoulders. As the class went on, John observed Binns, and had thought the Professor was completely oblivious to Sherlock showing off. However when the class ended, to the student's disappointment, Binns turned to Sherlock and thanked him for his help before floating away, through the back wall.

As everybody left to go their separate ways (that was the last class of the day) Sherlock had his hand shaken many, many times as everyone expressed their thanks. Sherlock seemed almost surprised when this happened (not that anyone noticed but John). "You should consider being a teacher someday," John teased him as they walked side by side back to the common room. To John's surprise, Sherlock, instead of looked scandalized at the thought like John thought he would, he looked surprisingly thoughtful.

"Perhaps, if the thought of solving mundane crimes with the help of magic," Sherlock said slowly. Then he gave a little laugh. "Think of it, John. With any luck, Donavan will still be in the service, we could show up when we turn seventeen, scare the living daylights out of her, then using Veritasium to the suspects and make then sing." Sherlock chuckled once more, looking over to John with a smile. "You'll wow them all with your healing abilities," the smile grew hesitant. "That's assuming you'll be a healer, of course." John nodded.

"I was thinking about working as a private Healer for the Aurors," John said with a fond grin at his friend. "Though, I think now that I've got you, again, I'll be too busy stitching you back up to have much time for anyone else." Sherlock's smile was still there, and John felt warm. His hand found that of his friend's, and together the two eleven year olds slipped into the Gryffindor common room.

****1047****

As was tradition, the teachers gathered in the Headmaster's office to discuss the first day. Professor's who'd already taught would warn those who hadn't about potential problem children, or those with great potential. Though, for the first time that Dumbledore could remember, the majority of the teachers were thrumming in anticipation to speak. Usually they're all sulking, or complaining of weariness or headaches, the Headmaster mused. Yet, there was no denying the energy of the professors as they all sat in the deformed semicircle on plush cushioned chairs around the Headmaster's desk. Even Professor Snape looked unusually smug.

Dumbledore sat down at his desk with a bit of bounce. "Well, no sense in wasting any more time, since we're all obviously ready." He looked around at his employee's faces. "Minerva?" McGonagall cleared her throat.

"As you know, I had the first year Hufflepuffs and Gryffindors today," she began with a nod of her head towards Pomona. "The Hufflepuffs were all very hard working, though I hope you'll not accuse me of bias when I saw that the three top students in class were all in Gryffindor." To Minerva's pleasant surprise, Sprout didn't seem that upset by this proclamation. "One Miss Hermione Granger, one Ronald Weasley, and one" here she couldn't help but pause for dramatic effect. "Harry Potter."

The professors collectively gasped. Not because of what Minerva said, but because Professor Cuthbert Binns floated into the meeting for the first time in nearly five decades. Dumbledore simply ignored the ghosts and gestured for Minerva to continue. "And what, Minerva, makes these three mentionable?"

"Oh, Headmaster," Minerva smiled. "I'd say that Mr. Potter had his father's talent, if he hadn't completely surpassed anything James did well until third year. And without instruction, no less. And Ms. Granger seems to be a very diligent study; she knew all the text book answers as sure as if she were quoting from the book. Mr. Weasley, while not as book smart as Granger nor bluntly powerful as Potter, was the only other one to make any change to his match stick. And even partial transfiguration is unusual for the first lesson." There were some nods. "But I mention Mr. Weasley mainly because I'm familiar with the family, and his mother has told me that Ronald has never shown much signs of magic at all. She counted only two separate occasions in which she'd seen him use accidental magic. Yet here he is, third in his class. He's completely different than what I was expecting, not to mention that he has no limp! It was just the day before term that Madame Hooch received a note excusing him from flying lessons, should he so wish, because of it. I remember her showing it to me."

To Dumbledore's surprise, Severus was the one to respond. "I spoke with the youngest Weasley boy some time ago, at which point I do recall him having an unfortunate limp. As I remember, he could barely bend his knee. However, his sort of limp was not caused by injury nor deformity. Muggles call this 'psychosomatic', in other words, it was all in his head. I'd done some research on it, out of curiosity and there were several reasons for such a limp, all adding up to feelings of worthlessness, hopelessness or inadequacy." Professor Sprout raised a hand to her mouth, her heart aching in sympathy.

Flitwick also looked troubled. "The Weasleys are a loving bunch," he squeaked. "Why on earth…" the small professor shook his head, trailing off, unsure of how to finish his thought. Severus waved that aside.

"Seeing as how he's cured of it I don't see how it's relevant. However, if my assumptions are correct, then his friendship with that Potter oddball" here Minerva made a noise of protest "is probably the cause of his relief. I might not have had them in class, but Potter seems unusually attentive to Weasley"

"But aren't they just the sweetest pair," Sprout cooed aloud. "I don't think Mr. Potter let go of Mr. Weasley's hand the entire time they were in my class."

"Nor in mine," Flitwick chuckled.

"And what of your class, Pomona" Dumbledore asked her. "Any shining stars."

"Well, in the Hufflepuff class, Finch-Fletchley showed a lot of promise. He said he grows vegetables with his father back home. Ms. Bones, though, must have tried the hardest out of all of them."

"And in Gryffindor? They were your second group of First years, weren't they?" asked Minerva, almost impatiently.

"Oh, Sherlock was magnificent. He knew all the Latin names and he was so excited about getting to the practical work."

"Sherlock?" Minerva raised an eyebrow while Dumbledore looked curiously at Snape, who had stiffened minutely.

"Oh, that's what Mr. Potter likes being called. Apparently 'Harry' is too 'plebian' for his tastes." Sprout giggled. "Though what's funny is how he can never remember people's names, but he can list all the plants in my greenhouse in alphabetical order from their proper names. He called Mr. Weasley 'John', and Mr. Thomas he called both 'David' and 'Domonic'. Ms. Granger he refused to call anything but 'Greg' or 'Gremione'." Sprout shook her head fondly. "Speaking of, Ms. Granger seemed to have memorized the reading section. But Neville was just a charmer with the plants. Made the Dandelions purr, he did."

"Mr. Potter needed no instruction in my class," Flitwick pipped in. "Just grabbed his wand and set off spelling everything transparent! I would have awarded him more points…if he hadn't done them spell on Mr. Finnegan to see if it'd turn his classmate invisible." Flitwick smiled. "Inquisitive one, Mr. Potter. He made all my Ravens fairly green with envy. Mr. Weasley showed promise, as did Granger when it came to the books. Mr. Finnegan _would_ have, if he hadn't set fire to everything he charmed after turning them transparent. I regret having to take points, because he intentionally did it. I think Mr. Potter was egging him on."

Minerva gave a chuckle. "Just like his father."

"No, nothing like Jiminy Pooter," Binns disagreed. "Sherlock was most magnificent in class. In fact, if I were you Headmaster, I put him down as a potential history professor when he graduates. I'd happily stand aside for him." All of the professors stared at him in shock. Binns had refused to leave his post for the last eighty years.

"And just how did young Mr. Potter conduct himself in your class?" Dumbledore prompted.

"He assisted me in the telling of the first goblin revolution against the olde kings!" Binns said which what the others assumed was enthusiasm. It was hard to tell when the speaker was dead and always spoke in monotone. "He made the story come to life. I've never had a class so thoroughly enthralled, more than half of them took studious notes. And the others were too enraptured by Sherlock to take their eyes away for even a moment."

There was heavy silence after Binns stopped talking. The ghost seemed unaware of it, just sitting there, staring straight ahead. Dumbledore cleared his throat. "And you, Professor Snape?"

"They were all hopeless, as usual," drawled the dour man. "Save for Draco Malfoy…"

****1047****

"Sherlock," Dean prodded him with an elbow that night at dinner. "Why're all the professor's staring at you?" Sherlock glanced up from his plate—which was empty, as he was eating off of John's—towards the front table. As soon as he did, all of the teachers looked away in unison. "See, it's getting creepy."

"Just ignore them," Sherlock told his…dormmate(?). "They've probably just been gossiping about the first day of class. You know how adults are, they never stick to their own business."

All of the children within earshot nodded sagely at these words of wisdom, while John and Gremione roll their eyes. Sherlock steals another chicken leg off of John's plate and starts nibbling off the meat. "Why don't you just fill your own plate?" Lavender asks him.

"I'm not hungry," he informs her as he takes another bite.

At the professor's table, Dumbledore his watching them with amusement. "I'll certainly have to owl Molly, and inform her that Ronald has made a friend."

"I have to admit, Albus," Minerva turns to him. "I'm slightly worried by Mr. Potter's behavior."

"How so?"

"He acts like he _owns_ Ronald. And Ronald seems perfectly fine with it!"

"Then what's the issue?" Minerva sighed, shaking her head as she returned to her meal.


	6. Flying and Fluffy

**Can I just take a moment to say how wonderful all you people are? You really make my day, every time you review. Honestly, as soon as I get one, I stop everything to read it. I love reviews even more than favs and follows. So thanks to the many, many people who have responded so far.**

 **Fangirl of Mass Destruction: First of all, I love your username! Secondly, I didn't realize just how OP Sherlock was until you told me. But now, I see your point. I'm going to switch around a few things that I think will not only aid in the story plot itself, but will add some funnies along the way. xD**

 **Terra-Fair: It would be funny, but I already have plans for Voldemort. Though, I don't know how I'm going to use Moriarty in this fic, so if you have any ideas, that'd be epic.**

 **Kai19: I actually wrote this chapter while on my break, xD You know, you're the second person to guess that. But…spoilers :) Don't worry, Mycroft will make more of an appearance in this chapter.**

 **Murder Junkie: lol, yeah. I'm looking forward to writing about both those classes.**

 **ChocolateSauce18: What is "crafting"?**

 **Thank you everyone for your kind reviews. I haven't gotten a single negative one about this fic, which is definitely a first! Love you all! And sorry this AN is so long, but I wanted to reply to the questions. Also, just in general…no Colin is no Moriarty, but he is connected to John and Sherlock's past….chew on THAT for a while.**

 **May the gods be ever in your favor!**

 **~James**

McGonagall was striding through the Great Hall towards the teacher table, stifling a yawn, when she nearly ran into bleary-eyed Neville Longbottom. The boy's eyes were half closed, and look surprised as he stumbled back, as though he hadn't seen her. "Sorry Professor" Neville said scrubbing his eyes.

"Did you have trouble sleeping, Mr. Longbottom?" she asked out of concern, though with a firm tone of voice. After all, it wouldn't be the first time that a student had purposefully stayed awake through the night. Neville furrowed his brow.

"Not really," he said. "But by the time we had gotten ready for bed, it was already almost time to wake u-u-up" Neville yawned through the last word.

"And just what were you doing all night?" she asked sternly, wondering if she'd have to take away points. Severus would just love seeing her having to deduct from her own house so early in the year.

"We were experimenting," Neville said with a happy little smile. "With explosive transfiguration. Sherlock and Seamus were showing us how we could make bombs that look just like ordinary things. We even figured out how to delay the explosion a bit." The boy's tired eyes now had a little bit more sparkle in them. "It was really fun! But then we lost track of time…" Neville looked sheepish. Minerva was torn between pleased Sherlock—Mr. Potter—was taking transfiguration so seriously, and being annoyed that her first years had stayed up all night.

"I want you and anyone else who was so foolish to head to Madame Pomfrey after breakfast for a Pepper Up potion," she told him sternly. "And no more staying up past eleven. If I find out that you do, it'll be twenty points from Gryffindor for every student who participated." Neville looked down at his shoes in shame. "Make sure you pass the message along."

"Yes Professor," Neville said as he slumped over to the cluster of First year boys who were practically passed out on the table.

All except for Sherlock—no, Minerva corrected herself _Mr. Potter_ —who looked as bright eyed and bushy-tailed as ever. The boy in question was waving his wand over a goblet, chanting something under his breath while Mr. Finnegan watched on eagerly. As she began walking towards the professor's table once more, she heard an explosion come from that direction. And she sighed.

*****1047*****

Sherlock was practically buzzing in his seat in the potions lab that afternoon. Across the room, Mycroft was rolling his eyes at his little brother. Double Potions today with the Slytherins, and tomorrow would be just an hour with only the Gryffindors. John was sulking, because Sherlock had chosen Seamus as his partner for labs. Dean was also sulking, because he was paired with Neville instead of Seamus. Greg didn't want a partner, and as there was an odd number of students, no one argued with her. Parvati and Lavender paired off, which left John with Colin, who seemed the only boy happy, besides Neville who was simply pleased he had a partner, with the arrangement.

"You're so lucky to be best friends with _the_ Harry Potter. I mean, he's so brilliant. How'd he ever think of all those ways to use explosive transfiguration? I can't wait until he comes to my house this summer, it'll be great." Colin babbled.

"Come to your house?" John asked, feeling his jealousy grow with every minute, between hearing Colin talk about how amazing Sherlock was, and watching Seamus and Sherlock giggle over their potion textbooks. John wondered when the bloody professor would get here.

"Yeah, he didn't tell you? It's my birthday the week after school gets out, so I'm inviting all the first year Gryffindors over for the day!" he said excitedly. "You'll come too, won't you John?"

"Of course," he told the smaller boy. "Someone has to keep an eye on Sherlock."

Just the then door banged open. "There will be no foolish wand-waving or silly incantations in this class." Professor Snape began without preamble. "As such, I don't expect many of you to appreciate the subtle science and exact art that is potion-making. However, for those select few..." Here Professor Snape looked directly at Draco Malfoy, who smirked. "…who possess the predisposition. I can teach you how to bewitch the mind and ensnare the senses. I can tell you how to bottle fame, brew glory and even…put a stopper in death."

Sherlock and Seamus showed extremely poor timing when they chose right then to giggle over something Sherlock had whispered into Seamus' ear. "Then again," Snape continued with narrowed eyes. "Maybe some of you have come to Hogwarts with abilities so formidable that you feel confident enough to _Not Pay Attention_." Sherlock rolled his eyes, making Snape's scowl more pronounced even as Gremione subtly whacked him over the head.

Snape stepped ever closer, looking for all the world like he wanted to smack Sherlock's ego out of his head. "Mr. Potter…" Snape grimaced at the name like it was a particularly foul thing. "Our…new…celebrity." Sherlock scowled right back at the professor. "Tell me, what would I get if I added powdered root of asphodel to an infusion of wormwood?"

"Well that depends," Sherlock replied easily. "Are you just clumping together the powders? Because if so, all you have is a mess. However, if you combine them in a mixture of ginger essence and bat blood brewed for an hour at a temperature of precisely 100 degrees Celsius, then cooled to 20 with an added sprinkle of ground bone of toad, you'll get the Drought of Sleeping Death."

Even Snape looked shocked during the duration of the following silence. "Where would you look if I told you to find me a bezoar?" he snapped out.

"The antidote shelf of your potion's closet?" Sherlock drawled. "Or, if you ask because you're out, the stomach of a goat. Bezoars found in a pregnant goat are more potent, but infinitely more messy to retrieve."

Snape looked interested now. "And what is the difference between monkshood and wolfsbane?"

"The spelling." Seamus couldn't hold back a snort.

"Explain." Snape demanded sharply.

"They're the same plant, aconite, so technically the only difference is the spelling."

There was nothing but silence. "Well?" Snape asked the class. "Why aren't you writing this down?" Snape whirled back around, his robes flaring as he walked back to the front of the classroom. He wrote up on the board instructions to make a simple boil-removing paste. John was interested, as if could prove useful in the future, so he and Colin set out to carefully make the paste. After the dramatic beginning to class, it went smoothly.

That is, until Sherlock and Seamus' cauldron exploded with a spectacular, deafening ' _BOOM'_. Sherlock cackled in glee as Seamus squealed while he ran for cover. Snape cast a shield protecting the class from the splatter, though two rather dumpy looking Slytherins got splattered on their faces. Their skin immediately turned a violent orange.

"Ten points from Gryffindor!" Snape barked. "Why did you not _follow my instructions?_ You didn't even use _ONE_ ingredient I posted on the board"

"I already _know_ how to make that potion," Sherlock said in the same tone of voice he used to use when he wanted Anderson or Donavan to know just how much he thought they were idiots. "What I _didn't_ know, was if this particular mixture of these ingredients," Sherlock gave a vague wave at his poor cauldron "would explode. And now I know."

"Detention, Potter!" Snape spat. "Tonight with me at seven." Sherlock rolled his eyes but mutter out a 'fine'.

******1047******

Over the next few weeks the firsties of Gryffindor tower fell into comfortable routine. They'd wake up to find a chattering Sherlock lying sprawled across a fast-asleep John. Then Sherlock and Seamus blew things up during breakfast while Colin babbled about how amazing Sherlock was. Then Sherlock would blow things up/show off/annoy the teachers during classes, invariably getting detention from Snape. Mycroft would always seek Sherlock out once a day do "check up on him" (though it seemed to everyone but the two ex-Holmes boys that it was simply to have an insulting battle of wits). Gremione would nag about getting homework done. Seamus experimented with Sherlock while John fretted about them catching themselves on fire.

Nothing much changed until two weeks in when a notice for flying matched was posted in the Gryffindor common room. Sherlock took one look at it and sneered. "It's like they're asking for one of the students to be horribly maimed." He said snidely.

Neville patted his arm comfortingly. "It's alright, Sherlock. I'm a bit scared myself to be honest." Sherlock looked scandalized.

"I'm not _scared_ " Sherlock scoffed at the outrageous notion. Neville just gave him a pitying smile and patted his arm again.

"'Course you're not," he said. John grinned at Sherlock, to the genius' ire.

"I'm rather looking forward to it," John said. "My brothers and I fly all the time back home. You know, I heard your br—your archenemy bragging about how well he could fly." Sherlock sniffed condescendingly.

"OH, please, John. With that fat arse I'd be surprised if he found a broom sturdy enough to lift him off the ground." John giggled in spite of himself. That afternoon found them lined up in the front lawn, broomsticks laying on the ground beside them. Sherlock was glaring at his like it was infected with some sort of nasty disease. Then John amended that thought, Sherlock would be incredibly interested if it were imbued with disease. No, he was glaring at the broom like it at Sargent Donovan's face painted onto the side of it.

Madame Hooch was looking straight at John with a pinched expression. "Mr. Weasley. If at any time you find your leg troubling you, I want to know straight away. Do I make myself clear?" John nodded, ignoring a leers he was getting from the Slytherin side of the class. "Alright, put one hand over your broom and say, very clearly, 'up'."

"Up" Sherlock drawled, and his broom jumped into his hand. Sherlock held it by a finger and thumb, as though he were afraid to expose too much of it to his bare skin. Mycroft got his on his second try. Seamus managed to cause his to erupt in flames. Neville got smacked in the nose. Greg's just sort of rolled over on the ground. Lavender and Parvati both refused to try, and Dean's floated leisurely up half way to his hand before plucking back down. The Slytherin's weren't having much luck either.

"Up!" John cried for the third time, and his broom flew up and nearly went passed his head if he hadn't caught it in time. It took another ten minutes before the rest of the class succeeded, and which point Madame Hooch looked rather annoyed. "Now" she said after a Slytherin boy named Goyle finally managed it with some help from Zabini, "Mount your brooms and slowly rise no more than five feet, than touch back down. On my whistle. Ready," As soon as Neville mounted his broom shot into the air.

"AHHHHHHHHH!" he wailed as the broom looped and lurched, as if it was trying to buck him off.

"Longbottom!" Madame Hooch cried. "Get back down!"

"C-CANT" Neville insisted as the broom zoomed straight for the wall. There was the sickening sound of impact, then Neville started to fall. Sherlock whipped out his wand and whispered ' _Arresto momentum'_. The class held its breath as Neville's fall slowed, until he rested gently against the grass. Madam Hooch was by his side in an instant, hollering out that no one was to be on their brooms until she returned from escorting Neville to the infirmary. "Or you'll be expelled before you can say 'Quidditch'."

As soon as she left, Mycroft approached Sherlock and John, the latter of which was taut with worry for their friend. "You needn't worry," Mycroft drawled. "Thanks to Sherlock, the worst injury he could have sustained is a broken limb…or several. Which, of course, can be mended in an instant."

"Pity it wasn't you that lost control," Sherlock said snidely. "All that fat on your body would have cushioned you." Mycroft rolled his eyes while Blaise snickered from behind him, used to Sherlock's comments on Mycroft's weight by now. Mycroft sneered.

"Obviously untrue even if I _were_ obese, as your chubby friend's _jelly rolls_ failed to do anything other than flop around." John's grin slipped off his face and some irritation started to show. Sherlock, however, just looked (mock) repulsed at having Mycroft so close to his being. "It's obvious the grubby klutz has never been on a broom in his life, and considering his track record I'm surprised the broom flew at all." Mycroft continued. Sherlock only rolled his eyes, knowing that his brother was only trying to get his goat. However as Mycroft stooped to pick up something from the grass, John snapped.

"How dare you!" John's voice cracked lick a whip, which was impressive seeing as he—like everyone else present—had only squeaky eleven-year-old vocal chords to utilize. "Neville is plenty competent when it comes to other things. I dare say he's better than you at Herbology."

If Sherlock were a lesser man, he would have winced at John's bravery/stupidity. The only rule of Mycroft's he followed (mostly because it had gone unspoken and agreed upon between them) that no matter how low the insults get, never state that someone outside of the Holmeses could ever match or (Merlin forbid) surpass Mycroft in anyway.

Mycroft's eyes narrowed and two small blotches of color began to grow on his normally pale and impassive face. He held up his hand, casually showing off the little trinket Neville had gotten from his Gran that morning from his owl. Mycroft tossed it lightly from one hand to the other. "I must say, _Weasley_ that I didn't think Longbottom was quite your type. Must I correct that assumption? You're defending him rather hastily." Mycroft sneered as the Slytherins cackled and John spluttered (Sherlock may or may not have been growling). "Or perhaps you're trying to cover up your own relief at not having to fly today, now that the oaf has gone and broken his arm. Everyone already knows your mummy wrote the school, asking you be excused today because of your _handicap_. It's only Gryffindor bullheadedness that your came out at all, isn't it?" Mycroft smoothly sailed up some thirty feet into the air, his broomstick still nearly vertical as the blond aristocrat hung on with merely a single hand and foot, but looking as snootily comfortable as ever. "You should've been a Hufflepuff."

Without a second thought, John mounted his broom and took to the sky, parallel with Mycroft before Sherlock could redraw his wand. Gremione gasped in horror. "John, get down! Madame Hooch said you'll be expelled!" Sherlock's heart clenched strangely in his chest, his knuckles white, his fingers tight on his wand. Whether it was the fact that John was suspended fifty feet in air by a flimsy looking twig, or the prospect of John being kicked out, Sherlock couldn't decide. On impulse, Sherlock fired off a stinging hex which connected with Mycroft's hand (Terrible shot, he'd been aiming for his brother's face) in an attempt to startle John into coming back down.

It didn't work, the Remembrall flew out of Mycroft's hand, and the students below lost sight of it in the glaring light of the near-noon sun. John took off like he was shot from a gun, then dove down at a frightening angle at breakneck speed. Down, down, down…Sherlock's mind blanked. He couldn't remember what spell to use...the cushioning charm? Was it powerful enough? Arresto momentum? But that could be counterproductive if the charm hit only the broom and John went flying off without it.

Then John swooped back up in a graceful curve, just as he had been only centimeters from his shoes scraping the grass. He hand his right hand above his head. In his fist was clutched the Remembrall. Colin Creevy started up a cheer that the rest of the Gryffindors immediately copied as they scrambled over to where John was dismounting his broom to congratulate him. Sherlock pounded ahead of all of them, nearly tackling John before he'd completely gotten off his broom. Both boys hit the grass but Sherlock didn't seem to notice. His knees were on the larger boy's chest and his hands were clutched in the fabric of John's collar.

"WHAT WERE YOU THINKING YOU IMBICILE!?" Sherlock roared. "IT'S JUST A PIECE OF BLOODY GLASS! I COULD'VE REPLACED IT FOR THREE SICKLES VIA OWL, BUT NOOOOOO! THE GREAT JOHNALD WEASLEY HAS TO GO AND PLAY CHICKEN. WITH. THE. GROUND!" Sherlock buried his face in John's neck, suddenly quiet. "I hate you." He said as he wound his arms almost protectively about John's shoulders.

"I couldn't have said it better myself, Mr. Potter." Said a stern voice with a Scottish lilt. John and Sherlock both paled as the Gryffindor firsties parted to allow McGonagall a pathway to the two boys still sitting on the ground. "That was reckless, foolhardy and not to mention _against the rules_. Mr. Weasley," McGonagall glowered. "Come. With. Me." Sherlock seemed to shrink against John.

"Please, Professor," Sherlock pleaded. "John didn't _really_ do anything wrong. It was My—Malfoy who started it. He stole Neville's-"

"I don't care," McGonagall cut him off, her eyes sparkling strangely as Sherlock pressed harder against John, nearly pushing him sprawled into the dirt. "Mr. Weasley, come with me." She repeated. The boys reluctantly got up, and Sherlock gripped one of John's hand in his own. "Just Mr. Weasley." Sherlock blanched.

"But you don't understand," Sherlock started again desperately. "It wasn't his fault at all! I-I-I-I _Imperiosed_ him!" he blurted out, mentally kicking himself for the blatant lie as some of his more gullible classmates gasped. McGonagall peered down her nose at Sherlock, making the once-thirty-year-old-man feel very small indeed.

"Just Mr. Weasley," her voice was softer this time, and Sherlock didn't quite know what it meant. Apparently, neither did Mycroft, who looked (for the first time in Sherlock's memory) guilty. John squeezed Sherlock's hand once before letting go and dejectedly following McGonagall.

The last thing Sherlock observed before fleeing to the Gryffindor common room was John's right leg stiffening as he walked.

****1047****

Sherlock lay face down on his bed…well, John's bed. Dean, Seamus, Greg and Colin were standing in an awkward sort of cluster on the other side of the dormitory. None of them seemed to know how to break the silence, none of them really even thought it appropriate in this case. One of their number was getting expelled. Greg crept closer to Sherlock after a few moments, Colin following suit after a second's hesitation. Gremione sat down on Sherlock's bed and rubbed the spot between his shoulder blades gently, trying to offer silent comfort.

Colin quietly sat down on the other side of the bed, twiddling his fingers in his lap looking confused and nearly as dejected as Sherlock.

They all flinched when the door banged open. It was John, Sherlock tumbled from his bed, knocking over Gremione in the process to leap at his friend. "I'm the new Seeker!" John blurted out. "I'm not in trouble at all!" he was beaming from ear to ear, and like that all tension drifted from the room. Dean gave a whoop and high-fived John while Seamus let out a slow, respectful 'Wicked'.

Gremione gave John a hug of her own, though she made no attempted to disentangle Sherlock first, from where he was clinging to John like a limpet. So it ended up being a strange sort of three-way group hug, that the rest of the boys laughingly joined in on. "That was _so_ irresponsible!" she scolded, not letting go. "You _could've been expelled_. And then I would have been stuck dealing with Sherlock on my own!"

"And what are we, chopped liver?" Seamus asked in mock anger.

"What's Seeker?" Colin asked.

John grinned. "It's a position on a Quidditch team, the most important position," John was visible preening now as his ego purred in delight at all of the attention. "Come on down to lunch and I'll tell you about it; I'm starving!"

"Wait!" Sherlock said suddenly, both his arms wrapped about John's left one. "Don't tell Mycroft. Let him think John got expelled and now he's having his last meal before boarding the train." Gremione rolled her eyes but the rest of them gave firm, almost vicious nods. Sherlock even took a moment to be slightly impressed as Seamus started slapping his face, making it red and his eyes water, like he'd been crying. Dean's shoulders were slouched and his face screwed up. Gremione looked angry…though it might have been at Sherlock's little prank rather than play-acting for it. And Colin started sniffling and pathetically latched on to John's other side.

It was like this that they wandered into the Great Hall. They drew many looks and (Except Dumbledore, McGonagall and Snape) assumed that John had been expelled because of the stunt at Flying practice. They drew many pitying looks as they sat down at the Gryffindor table and began to solemnly load their plates, Sherlock not even bothering to be subtle about how he ate off of John's. Sherlock nearly forgot about their little prank when an abandoned newspaper caught his eyes. He grabbed it and then tugged on John's arm, which drew the attention of the whole group.

"Look at this," Sherlock said. "Someone broke into Gringotts, successfully I might add, but didn't take anything because the vault they chose was empty."

"Well, that's rather unfortunate planning," Dean snorted. Sherlock nodded absently.

"I recognize both the goblin in this picture, and the vault. It's the goblin who showed Hagrid and myself to my trust vault and Gringotts, and this vault is the one Hagrid retrieved something from. One Dumbledore's orders he said. What's more, is that the robbery happened on the very same day that we were there. It's only just come out now because the Ministry was trying to hide it."

"I can understand why," John said. "It would take a very powerful wizard to get _into_ Gringotts with malicious intent, let alone back out. The Minister probably didn't want to cause a panic. I only wonder what it was."

"Something interesting," Sherlock said, his eyes gleaming. "I told you I smelled a case, Gremione!" Greg looked concerned and was about to say something when a shadow fell across the table. Sherlock scowled, recognizing Mycroft's silhouette. He didn't bother looking up.

"I…regret my actions earlier, Ronald," Mycroft said stiffly as the Gryffindor first years all gave him and Blaise, who was standing stiffly next to him, the evil eye. Except for Colin who was still sniffling behind his hands. "I'd have you know that my father is on the board of Governors for the school. I'm sure he'd be able to intervene-"

"He doesn't want any help from you," Sherlock sneered at him. "Haven't you don't enough, Malfoy? Let us eat in peace."

"I'm trying to help-"

"I'm sick of your 'help', Mycroft," Sherlock hissed. "I challenge you to a wizarding duel, the classroom across from McGonagall's, tonight. Twelve sharp. John's my second, choose yours."

"Blaise," Mycroft said, his eyes twinkling. "No backing out, _Potter_."

"Wouldn't dream of it, _Malfoy,_ "

Malfoy spun on his heel and marched back to the Slytherin table with a very confused Blaise on his heels. "What was that about?" Dean demanded after a moment. Sherlock raised an eyebrow, as though he assumed it should be obvious.

"I just informed him that John wasn't expelled, but because I'm angry with him he should cause a distraction here on the ground floor to make it up to me while John and I explore the third level, because obviously whatever Hagrid took from the vault, he brought here." Only John wasn't looking at Sherlock like he'd sudden sprouted a pair of faerie wings.

"Are you sure he got _all that,_ " asked Seamus. "From _that?_ "

"Of course," Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Malfoy is many things, but unfortunately an idiot isn't one of them." Greg scoffed while Colin, Dean and Seamus slowly nodded, trying to act like they weren't completely lost to what the heck was going on.

"Dumbledore _told_ us not to go to the third floor," Gremione told them with a tight frown. "It was the very first thing he warned us about."

"Exactly," said Sherlock, looking please. Clearly assuming that Gremione's statement meant that she was on the same page as them. But he was soon disappointed, as even John looked confused. Sherlock sighed at his friends' idiocy. "The surest way to ensure that children go somewhere, is to tell them that by doing so they'll die a horrible death, and do so in a dramatic fashion. Clearly, Father Christmas over there wants one of us lions to go snooping. Something just isn't right, I _need_ to find out what the object is! It's the most interesting thing that's happened all semester!"

John looked at him in disbelief. "Really?" he asked incredulously. "A _bank robbery_ is the most interesting thing that's happened lately?" he just stared when Sherlock frowned. "Really?" Sherlock's lips gave a twitch and he patted John on the head, finding it slightly odd that he had to reach up to do so.

"Valid point, John," Sherlock said, sounding pleased before turning back to his/John's meal.

******1047******

"You really, really shouldn't be doing this," Gremione tried for the third time to dissuade them. "John only just barely avoided being expelled this afternoon. Maybe give it a break for a week or two? Space your activity out a bit? They'll be more lenient that way than if you just keep causing one disaster after another."

Sherlock pondered this for a moment. "Sound strategy, Lestrade, except I'd hardly count today as a 'disaster'. Neville's already healed and it's not like it was even our fault. Furthermore, Mycroft will be causing a disturbance downstairs, probably only to blame it on Peeves later, so we have a small gap fro approximately twelve to twelve-thirty between when Filch will be on the first and third floor. And if you see a cat, shoot first ask questions later," Sherlock said that last bit to John.

Gremione watched John nod as he fingered the wand that was sticking out of his back pocket. She sighed heavily. "Give me a moment to fetch my wand, and then I'm coming with you." She told them. Sherlock made an impatient gesture for her to hurry up, so she took the stairs up to the girl's dorm two by two. She was back within moments, her vine wood wand in grasp.

"If we get caught," Gremione said. "I'm claiming _Imperio_." Sherlock rolled his eyes as he pushed open the Fat Lady's portrait. The woman muttered a bit in her sleep as John quietly closed it behind them. They crept through the castle along the walls, staying in the shadows. As they were passing by the stairwell, they heard a great crash that came from several stories below. It was followed by a shout from, who Sherlock recognized as, Snape.

"That'll be Mycroft," Sherlock said. "Run" Gremione and John needed no further prompting as they clambered down the steps to the third floor corridor. They heard footsteps coming close, assumedly professors coming to investigate the noise. They bolted down the nearest hallway, all with the unanimous thought to hide through the door at the end of the hallway…which Sherlock noticed with a slightly elevated heart rate was the only door there. John reached it first, only to moan quietly in dismay when finding it locked.

"Out of the way," Sherlock said. " _Alohamora_ " There was an audible 'click' and Gremione swung the door open. No sooner than were they all inside than did they hear the professor's footsteps begin to fade with distance. They all three sighed in relief. "That went well, I was half expecting someone to double check this room was safe." John gave him a fond look while trying to catch his breath when Gremione almost (quietly) screamed at Sherlock to ask if he was trying to get the three of them expelled. Then John's face froze.

"G-g-guys?" he asked, his eyes boring into something above Sherlock's head.

"John?" Sherlock asked in concern. He made to step over, closer to his friend, when a large wet glob of _something_ splattered all over the floor between them. Sherlock jumped back in surprise, only for his back to make contact with a wall.

A large…moving… _furry_ wall. Sherlock twirled around with a _stupefy_ on his lips, but the spell failed him when he lost his concentration. "A Cerberus," Sherlock said in what John could only describe as reverence. "Look, John!" Sherlock cried with all the glee of a child on Christmas morning. "A Cerberus! An actual Cerberus here at the sch—" John pulled Sherlock out of the way when one of the growling heads snapped at the babbling boy.

"Let's get out of here!" Gremione wailed as she threw open the door, no mind being stealthy now. John tore after her as he drug Sherlock behind him.

"There's no point running _now_ ," Sherlock pouted. "The poor beast is chained to the trapped door he's sitting on." But neither of his friends paid him any mind, or even slowed down until they were safely back within the walls of the Gryffindor common room. John then pulled Sherlock closer to himself and started patting his friend all over, as though checking to make sure all of Sherlock's body parts were where they were supposed to be. Then John hugged Sherlock's neck.

Sherlock made an annoyed sound, even as he patted John's back. "We need to get through that trapped door." Sherlock said. "I'm almost certain—"

"NO" John interrupted him, his fingers tangled in Sherlock's long hair on either side of his head. "Just…no. Those things are class XXXX. Nearly as bad as dragons. No. I'm not letting you anywhere near that thing." He pulled Sherlock to his chest, where Sherlock found John's heart to be beating at nearly three times its normal speed. It was then that Sherlock decided to let John recover for a fortnight until he approached the subject again.

And they both knew he would.


	7. Brain Buffalo Dying

**Hey guys! Thank you so much for all of your reviews! I just love reading through them. It makes me smile so big my brother always gives me weird looks. As for an update schedule!...**

 **…..schedule? What is this skedual you speak of?**

 **I don't really follow any schedule…my life is too hectic. I just write whenever I can, on whichever story I feel most inspired for. I mean, most times I update, I've literally just finished writing the entire chapter in one go. I'm sorry if this disappoints you…**

 **Sorry about all the little mistakes…I do try to catch them…but editing is my Achilles heel….along with coming up with titles, spelling and grammar. xD**

 **Lastly I'd just like to say that if any of you have ideas for funny moments between Snape and Sherlock, or Quirrel(Voldemort) and Sherlock PLEASE let me know! And any other ideas, period. Thank you so much for your support, I love you all!**

 **May the gods be ever in your favor**

 **~James**

Mycroft was waiting at the Gryffindor table for them the next morning when John and Sherlock came down for breakfast. "Did you hear?" he drawled. "Some idiot left raw meat on the tables last night. Thestrals got in and trashed the place. It took all night for the teachers to mop everything up. Personally, I blame the oaf…Hagrid, I think his name is?"

"I'll thank you to not speak of my friends so," Sherlock sniffed. "And get your fat arse out of my seat. I'm tired, and would like to sit down."

"Tired?" John noticed that Mycroft suddenly looked mildly concerned, though he was sure Sherlock was purposefully ignoring it. Mycroft scooted over a few feet, and Sherlock pretended to reluctantly sit down next to him. John took his usual place to Sherlock's left as the other Gryffindor first years gathered around.

"The most horrible sound was keeping John and I awake last night," Sherlock said, his voice kept low. "It sounded rather like a dog…or three." Mycroft's eyebrows drew together as he tried to decipher what Sherlock meant. "It sounded as though it was chained up, someone should check on the poor thing, make sure there's nothing underneath it making him uncomfortable."

"I'm sure Hagrid would know," Mycroft said, his voice kept at a similar volume. "Let me know if there's anything I can do." John was struck by the honesty on Mycroft's face. Sherlock looked like he was about to insult Mycroft, probably reflex, but he stayed his tongue, instead nodding sharply. Mycroft gave John a friendly smile, then he gave Gremione a gentlemanly bow before rising from the table and sashaying over to where Blaise had saved him a seat.

"Bloody busybody," Sherlock mumbled as he scooted closer to John to grab a piece of melon off of his plate.

"Mind translating for us?" Gremione asked as she sat down in the seat that Mycroft had just vacated. "Because I know neither of you are very concerned about that dog's welfare." Sherlock looked scandalized.

"How can you say such a thing?" he asked, eyes wide. "It's a _Cerberus_ Gremione, a _Cerberus_. Do you have any idea how _rare_ those things…" he trailed off, catching a glance of John's pale face. Sherlock cleared his throat, subtly grabbing John's hand. "What I mean to say, is we're going to go see Hagrid this afternoon during break and ask him about the dog. If he is involved with the case, like I know he is, he'll act guilty. I might be able to deduce what the parcel was."

"Is it really that important?" John asked hesitantly.

"Do you _want_ me to be bored?" Sherlock asked in the same tone that others might ask "Do you want my face to fall off?" Gremione rolled their eyes at the both of them as owls flooded the air above them. John was surprised when a long, thin package was dumped on top of his bacon. John was about to reach for it, when a letter was dropped on top. John opened the letter first as Fred and George came over to spy on the younger kids.

"DO NOT OPEN THE PARCEL AT THE TABLE." The letter said in spikey, green ink.

"It contains your new Nimbus Two Thousand, but I don't want everybody knowing you've got a broomstick or they'll think the school got it for you. As it is, you should be thanking your very generous friend. Furthermore, Oliver Wood will meet you tonight on the Quidditch field at seven o'clock for your first training session.

Professor McGonagall"

"My very generous friend," John mused. Then he tackled Sherlock in a hug, knocking the other boy off his seat. "Thankyouthankyouthankyouthankyou" he babbled. "I've never gotten a new broom before! I've always had to make due with Charlie's old one!" Sherlock awkwardly patted John on the back.

"Yes, well," Sherlock cleared his throat with an awkward shrug. "I figured I owed you after all the times I took your credit card to buy experiment materials." A freckled hand from above scooped up the broom.

"Blimey, Ron!" said Fred. "Is this what I think it is?"  
"Not fair!" George wailed. "Why'd you have to go and be best friends with a rich kid?"

"Not that we're discouraging it," Fred was quick to say, elbowing George in the ribs. "We're very happy for you and your boyfriend."

"Oi!" John protested, though it was halfhearted at best.

"You'll have to let us borrow this sometime, Ronnikins," George said.

"I've never even touched one, before," Fred said with more than a bit of jealousy as he ran his hands over the packaging paper.

"Give it back," Ron demanded. "I want to open it."

"But McGonagall said not to," Greg reminded them in her bossy sort of way. Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"She said to not open it in the Great Hall," Sherlock said. "So give it to us, and we'll open it in the dorms." John jumped up and grabbed it from his brother. He and Sherlock dashed out of the Great Hall, up towards Gryffindor Tower.

***1047***

If there was one thing that Sherlock despised more than Mycroft…it was headaches. Ever since he was little, the smallest headache would make him moan and flop about uselessly, clutching at his head. Less because of the pain and more because it made it almost impossible to concentrate. Luckily, he almost never got them. And when he did, he always pretended he was bored, so as not to worry John.

But there was no point trying not to worry John, because John was already looking at him with concern. Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut and inched impossibly closer to John, who was already sandwiched against the wall on a bench in the DADA classroom. John had both arms around him.

"Is s-s-something t-the mat-t-ter, boys?" Professor Quirrel asked them. Sherlock gritted his teeth, feeling his headache double as the Professor drew closer. "Are y-you al-lright, Mis-s-ster Pot-t-t-ter?" Sherlock didn't bother answering, he only pulled on his banged with his fingers. John answered for him.

"May I please take him to the infirmary?" John asked. "He's hurting." The Professor hesitated, probably trying to figure out if Sherlock and John were faking it, trying to get out of class. Sherlock, meanwhile, felt like someone was trying to claw into his brain. It started like a pinprick at the front of his brain, and then it felt like a nail being driven into his skull.

"G-go ahead, M-m-mister Weas-s-sley," the professor told them with a kind look. "And l-l-let me kn-know wh-what Madame Pom-pomfrey s-s-s-s-ays," John nodded as he helped Sherlock stand up. Sherlock was suddenly hit with a dizzy spell and he almost fell down. John put his friend's arm over his shoulder and carried both their weights.

"Come on, Sherlock," John muttered. Sherlock gave him a dirty look, but made an attempt to stand on his own. The two of them managed to make their way out of the classroom, and as soon as the door swung shut behind them, Sherlock found the headache had lessened considerably.

"Are you alright?" John asked. Sherlock nodded.

"Headache," he said shortly. "Can't…brain…buffalo…dying" he tried to explain. John seemed to get it though, he always did. John half carried him to the infirmary where Madame Pomphrey came bustling over.

"Oh, dears," she said. "What happened?"  
"Sherlock's got a bad headache," John said. "He couldn't concentrate and he felt really dizzy." Madame Pomphrey waved her wand over Sherlock, whose face was paler than normal, except for his scar, which had turned red. Pomphrey put her hand to Sherlock's forehead. Sherlock pulled away, not wanting to be touched.

"You feel warm," she said kindly. "Is it your scar bothering you? I know that curse scars can sometimes act up for no reason. Why don't you lie down? I'll get you something for it." John thanked her and led Sherlock to the nearest bed, which Sherlock immediately flopped down on, face first. John climbed up next to him.

"Do you know why your scar is acting up?" John asked. Sherlock mumbled something and shook his head. John nodded, then laid down on his back next to Sherlock as they waited for Madame Pomphrey to come back with a pain reliever potion.

****1047*****

John watched Sherlock lie there, staring at the ceiling with his eyes wide open. John knew that a lot of people in his position would find this mildly disturbing, but John had been best friend with Sherlock Holmes—Potter—whatever—long enough that it didn't bother him. Sherlock lay flat on his back, his arms straight by his sides, his beaufitul green eyes staring blankly at the ceiling, unblinking. John put a hand to Sherlock's forhead, his friend not reacting at all, and frowned, feeling the unnatural warmth emanating from that thrice damned scar. John stroked his thumb gently over the irritated mark, loosing himself to thought as his fingers strayed into Sherlock's hair, gently running them through.

Sherlock always seemed very irritable in Quirrell's class, but John, until now, had always chalked it up to him hating the man's stutter. But now John wondered if it wasn't something more. He'd have to talk to Sherlock about it later, see if he had any theories (what was he saying "if"? Of course Sherlock had theories).

John's hand never stilled, and John didn't notice for a good fifteen minutes that Sherlock had fallen asleep under the gentle touch.

***1047****

Sherlock had retreated into his mind palace, trying to determine just what was makig his head feel like Mycroft and a half-lame bear tried to waltz through its halls. The stream of magic running through felt tense, like it was being pulled at. Sherlock soon realized that some of the magic was being stolen from the main current and redirected to the strange room he'd only been in once before. The room that housed that small black mass behind the chipped white door. The last time Sherlock had been in here, the small mass seemed to sigh in contentment and stretch out like a glop of margarine on a hotplate until it had spread out and seemed to grow a fraction of its size. But then it'd grown very still and Sherlock had grown bored so he'd left and not thought about it again, simply thinking it a new part of his wizardly make up.

But now he wasn't so sure. Sherlock cursed himself for being so stupid as he followed the trail to the ugly door. He opened it with some struggle, but it was easier than the first time. The black mass was no longer the size of a small cat, but rather than of a medium dog. It was vaguely humanoid, despite still being made up of wispy black clouds. It was also hunched over and trembling.

Sherlock frowned and knelt beside it. He hesitantly put a hand on the deformed child-like creature, strangely feeling like he should offer comfort, and feeling uncomfortable at the foreign impulse. The small _thing_ jerked at the contact, but didn't pull away, instead it seemed to lean into his touch, and the stream of magic that had been diverted to it grew stronger. Something in Quirrell's class made this thing agitated, Sherlock assumed. But how and why? And what? Maybe the revolting amount of garlic that weirdo smeared on everything. Perhaps this creature in his head was allergic to garlic? Sherlock certainly held no fondness for that particular herb.

It was trembling, like it was cold. So Sherlock conjured a blanket (it's his head, he can do what he wants) and swept it over the creature. Then he sat back on his haunches and observed it. Was this the source of his magic? No, if it was it wouldn't be feeding off of the main stream. Then some sort of parasite? Perhaps, though it didn't seem malevolent. Sherlock could sense scrambled emotions coming off of it: Confusion, pain, anger, sorrow, remorse, relief, guilt. Sherlock sat there for what felt like a long while.

And then he felt someone brush his forehead. _John_ his brain immediately told him what his eyes saw somewhere off in the distance. Then the fingers strayed down into his hair, and he felt calm steal over him and the creature. Sherlock close his eyes and lay down on the floor next to the small black thing. Further deductions could wait.

*****1047*****

The issue of seeing Hagrid was solved the next day, when Sherlock had quite recovered from his headache the previous day (not that John believed it, he mothered Sherlock even more than usual, from insisting on carrying his books to holding his arm steady as they walked down the halls together. Their friends weren't sure what was funnier: John's actions or the fact Sherlock seemed to enjoy it.), when Hedwig flew in, dropping a rumpled piece of parchment on Sherlock's empty plate. Sherlock smiled at the owl, giving her a piece of John's bacon and stroking the soft feathers on her neck. She gave him a loving nip on his nose, then flew off. Ian, who had delivered John with the latest of his mother's letters (asking him if her baby boy was alright, if he was eating enough, if his leg was bothering him, if he was getting along with the other children), stayed behind, seemingly content to sit upon John's shoulder. Sherlock smiled at bit at them, it looked like Ian was reading Mrs. Weasley's letter over John's shoulder.

"What's that, then?" Gremione asked, snatching up the letter. Sherlock didn't mind, he already knew what it was.

"It's a letter from Hagrid, inviting us to tea. We've a free period today, let's go then." Gremione scowled at him, as she always did when Sherlock deduced something and she wasn't sure how he'd done it. "Who else would send a letter that rumpled and smelling of dog and burning wood, and why else would he send it?" Sherlock asked by way of explanation. Gremione only sniffed in annoyance and dropped the letter back on his plate as Sherlock grabbed some of John's scrambled eggs with his fingers.

Lavender showed a bit of disgust that Sherlock was eating such messy food with his fingers, but she didn't say anything because John didn't seem to mind, he only pushed the side with eggs closer to Sherlock so his friend would have easier access to it.

"Mum wants you to come over, Christmas," John said. "I told her you don't want to go back to your muggle relatives. She and Dad were going to go visit one of my brothers, but something happened and we're all just going to the Burrow." Sherlock nodded, pleased at this and mentally listing the things he would order (via owl) to gift the Weasley's with on Christmas. "You're invited, too, Greg. Though I think your parents will want you home." Greg nodded sadly.

"I'm glad to see them, but I'll miss you, two." Gremione smiled fondly as Sherlock plucked a piece of toast out of John's hand, just as he was about to put it in his mouth. Sherlock took a bite and handed it back. John just seemed resigned as he chewed on the side that Sherlock hadn't bitten off of.

"Maybe we can all have a Christmas party at my house," Neville said. "We could have it the day before Christmas Eve! We could invite all the Gryffindor First years, your brothers-coz they're hilarious, John—and our friends from the other houses. I'm sure Draco would want to come, he's awfully fond of you two."

"Yes," Sherlock agreed. "Simply awful." The other children started listing off names of kids from other houses, and Neville took out a scroll and quill to jot down all the names.

"Gran has always wanted me to host a ball," Neville said. "She gets upset when I hide in the library whenever she throws one. I'm sure she wouldn't mind having the manor be the place we meet up in, I think she'd be too relieved that I'm finally acting like a pureblood heir."

"To be safe, you should owl her before we plan anymore," John said. Neville nodded happily as he took out another scroll and began penning his grandmother a letter.

That afternoon, the "golden Trio", as the first year lions had dubbed their little group, trudged down the hill towards the small wooden shack near the edge of the Forbidden Forest. Sherlock and John were arguing about Sherlock needing to actually tie his scarf about his neck, rather than just dangling it from his shoulders.

"It's just a strip of cloth!" Sherlock argued, and Greg tried not to laugh at them. "It doesn't actually _do_ anything! Leave me alone you fussy old woman!"

"It does too _do something_ ," John argued right back as he pulled Sherlock to a stop then grabbed his scarf wrapping it warmly and snugly about his neck. Sherlock stood there with an expression of displeasure on his face. Though Gremione didn't believe it for a second, because as soon as John stepped back and gave a little nod, satisfied with his work, Sherlock looped an arm though one of John's (though with his other hand he undid the scarf). Gremione sighed at them and pounded on the door of Hagrid's house.

There was a loud shuffling noise from the other side of the door, and a low growl. "Back, Fang, back," they heard Hagrid demand. The door opened with a slight groan to reveal the large bushy man standing there with a bright grin on his face. "Well, don't just stand there! Come in, come in!" he greeted while struggling to hold onto the thick collar of an enormous dog. Sherlock's eyes went wide and he immediately—to John's horror—reached for the dog. John nearly screamed when he saw Sherlock's tiny hand that close to the maw of a dog named _Fang_. But the dog let out a little yip accompanied by a butt wiggle as he nuzzled against Sherlock's palm.

"I like dogs, John"

"you don't say."

"Eh, don't worry about 'im none," Hagrid told John. "Big softy 'e is. Make yerselves at home," said Hagrid, letting go of Fang, who bounded straight at Sherlock and started licking his ears. Like Hagrid, Fang was clearly not as fierce as he looked.

"This are my friends," Sherlock told Hagrid as he cuddled Fang's neck. "John Weasley and Gremione Granger."

"Weasley, eh?" Hagrid said, glancing at Ron's freckles. I spent half me life chasin' yer twin brothers away from the forest." John gave a little giggle.

"You won't have to worry about me," John said. "I'm far too busy taking care of Sherlock to cause any trouble." Hagrid grinned.

"Still going by Sherlock, then?" Hagrid asked with an affectionate look at him. "You know, yer Dad regretted naming you Harry. It was right after his own Dad died, and so James named you after 'im. Then, after you were born, he remembered just how much he hated people who named their kids after their parents. Your mum had a right laugh about that."

The rock cakes Hagrid served them were shapeless lumps with raisins that almost broke their teeth, but the kids pretended to be enjoying them as they told Hagrid all about their first -lessons. Fang rested his head on Harry's knee and drooled all over his robes. Gremione and Hagrid bonded quite a bit over talk of magical creatures, what with Hagrid's need to boast about his 'darling pets' and Gremione's insatiable need for more information.

John drifted off into his own head somewhere early in the conversation. The newspaper laying on the table caught his eyes. It was the same one from earlier, about the Gringott's break in. John subtly nudged Sherlock and gestured at it with a nod of his head.

"What about Cerberus?" Sherlock suddenly asked as Hagrid was listing all the creature's he'd raised over the years. "I've always been fascinated by them."

"Oh, yeah!" Hagrid said, excited at their interest. "In fact, I still have the biggest of the litter I helped into the world! Good ol' Fluffy's the best guard dog you'll ever wave a wand at! Weren't surprised t'all when Dumbledore asked to borrow her for the year to guard the—" Hagrid suddenly stopped talking, and John watched as Sherlock looked a bit crestfallen, though you could tell through his eyes that his mind was going at a million miles an hour.

"The thing that you took from Gringott's right before it was robbed?" John supplied.

"Yeah, er—" Hagrid frowned. "I mean no! Well…how'd you know 'bou tha'?"

"Sherlock told me about your trip when he saw the newspaper the other day," John said truthfully. "Must be awfully important to put a Cerberus guard over it."

"Not so important that you need to know more about it!" Hagrid said, and that was the end of the discussion. The conversation soon drifted to John's brother Charlie, and from there to dragons. Before they knew it, it was time to head back up to the castle.

****1047****

Hogwarts' resident Potion's Master was at his wit's end with that Potter brat. He was cocky and arrogant…but not like James had been. James' arrogance had been cruel and his cocky wit had been ignorant at best and idiotic the rest of the time. However "Sherlock" was…dare Severus say it…almost _justified_ in his arrogance. There was no denying that Sherlock was a genius. And if his strong suspicions were correct, Sherlock wasn't even a proper 11 year old. He was a grown man in a small body.

Furthermore, Sherlock obviously suffered abuse at the hands of his relatives. He was too small for it to be accredited to anything other than malnourishment. Sherlock always ate very little, but what he did eat he gobbled down like he was afraid you'd take it from him…another sign that food was withheld from him.

All this in mind, Severus wasn't sure how to deal with the unruly student who insisted on blowing _something_ up in **_every single lesson_**. Before he'd met Potter, he'd assumed he'd be a mini-James, and Severus had planned to treat him as such…but Severus found that he…couldn't.

Not only was Sherlock leagues smarter than James ever was, but Sherlock more like Lily in personality. Sherlock had Lily's temper, her acerbic wit, her unwavering loyalty to her friends, the way they both freely gave their affection to their friends, how they tried to help people without letting people they were helping, how sweet they really were despite trying to cover it up with a front, how desperate they were to prove themselves despite having nothing to prove.

And then…there were his eyes. They were the exact replica of Lily's. There were other things: his cheekbones were the same as his mother's, he had her small, slender hands, his nose was like hers, and his hair carried a gentle wave while James' had been perpetually spikey and snarled.

Sherlock had even made friends with a few of his Slytherins! That was not something he'd expected from the Potter heir, but whenever he and his godson spoke, Draco had nothing but the best things to say about Potter…and Draco complained about everything.

But all this did not change the fact that Sherlock Potter and Seamus Finnegan were giggling as they lowered bovine mucus into a potion full of asp venom and odium essence. It's like they _wanted_ their heads to be blown completely off their shoulders! "MR. POTTER" Severus snarled as he stalked towards them. Seamus' hands froze. Severus banished the mixture (ignoring the pathetically dejected look on the tiny Potter's face) and scowled down at them. "Obviously you couldn't care less whether or not I take points away or hand out detentions; behavior that the Weasley twins consistently display. I can't help but wonder _Mr. Weasley_ ," Severus turned on "Johnald". "If you are egging him on?" Severus narrowed his eyes, stealing his resolve against the heartrending expression on Sherlock's face as he realized where Professor Snape was going with this.

"From now on," Snape continued. "Every time I even _suspect_ that you've goaded Mr. Potter into starting an inferno in my classroom, I shall not only put you in detention for a week with Filch, but you shall be banned from the next Quidditch game to either play in or attend."

The small Weasley face was pale, and Severus felt guilty for a moment, but he squashed the feeling. Sherlock may be a genius but he didn't know everything. It was only a matter of time before he hurt himself and his lab partner with his foolery. "And just so that I can keep an eye on the both of you at once, you and Mr. Finnegan will be switching places." There was silence. "NOW"

The two boys scrambled to retrieve their things. "Please professor," Sherlock said, lacking the usual cockiness. "John didn't do anything, he's been telling me to quit. I won't do it again, I swear."

"Good," drawled Severus as he internally breathed a sigh of relief. "Because my promise stands either way, Mr. Potter."

Severus smirked when he saw John smack Sherlock with his text book when the two boy's thought his back was turned. Briefly, he wondered if he and Lily had ever been like that. Severus froze as soon as the thought rose, then said a prayer that those two boys would have a happier ending.


	8. Halloween

**Hello peoples! It made me so happy when so many reviews came in for the last chapter. However, there was one review in particular that made me want to clarify something.**

 **This will not be one of those fics where the new characters do the same exact thing that happened in cannon. I know it seems that way right now, but that is because they (like the characters in the first book) are simply going with the flow. Things are happening to them, and they are reacting as their personalities dictate. As you have probably (hopefully) noticed, they are reacting differently than the cannon characters did. Subtle changes are happening (i.e. Snape is fond of Harry; John already suspects Quirrell; the 'Golden Trio' has a better relationship not only with each other earlier on, but with their housemates and even those of other houses.) However, soon there will be a pivotal moment at which Sherlock will make an important decision that will completely change the course of the story. So, yes, this book is following a lot of the same story elements as the SS novel, but that will change soon.**

 **Thank you so much for all of your reviews! I love your ideas, and I'd address them, but this AN is already super long. Just know that I've read them and am going to try and use as many as possible!**

 **Smauglock: yes. Yes it is. xD**

 **(I do not own anything in this chapter except…you know…the plot…ish)**

 **May the gods be ever in your favor!**

 **~James**

(TJLCFTW!)

Kudos to those of you who know that that says.

****1047*****

Neville's eyes were wide as he watched his weird new friends share breakfast. John was eating cubes of fruit, but every other time he picked up a piece he'd shove it unceremoniously into Sherlock's mouth. Sherlock, in turn, would then spit it out onto the floor, where a House Elf would appear, pick it up, and vanish. Gremione was rolling her eyes at the both of them. Lavender and Parvati were looking squeamish at it. Neville watched as the two girl turned to share a grimace at John and Sherlock's expense, but then the two girls tensed and looked away from each other to glare at the floor. Seamus and Dean were trying to turn water into Rum (Sherlock had managed some sort of muggle drink called 'coke' on the second day). Collin was babbling to Sherlock, happily oblivious that the other boy wasn't listening, about how his little brother accidentally blew up a vase with magic.

"He's a wizard too!" Colin squealed happily. Sherlock spit out a piece of strawberry in reply. Neville wasn't sure how to react to his friends. Fondness rose up in him as he watched John shove a melon cube in Sherlock's mouth, then hold the smaller boy's lips shut with his hand, forcing Sherlock to swallow it whole. Neville was certain that if Gran were here, she'd be glaring in disapproval at their manners (or lack thereof).

But, Neville decided, the Slytherin's manner would balance them out. So there wasn't any need to be worried about the Yule Ball Gran had agreed he'd be able to host. It was going to be a big thing, it seemed. It started out as just the first years from Gryffindor and Slytherin (ironic, Neville thought, because of the age old rivalry) but it soon grew to include the first years from all the houses, and then anyone who wanted to attend. No one seemed to care that it was a first year hosting it. Already, people were talking about who they were going to ask to the Ball.

Neville grinned as he recalled a conversation from last night. Fred and George were tossing around a quaffle they'd liberated from Oliver's personal chest. John and Sherlock were curled up together around Sherlock's history text in one of the plush chairs. Percy waved his wand, sending the quaffle flying into the prefect's hand. In need of new entertainment, the twins rounded on John and Sherlock.

"So, Ronnikins," started Fred.

"How's my favorite little brother been?" asked George.

"I thought _I_ was your favorite little brother," said Fred, looking hurt.

"With _that_ ugly mug?" shot back George. John grinned at his brother, but didn't verbally answer as he pressed closer to Sherlock, who was absently twirling his wand, muttering some obscure incantation under his breath.

"At least it's pretty enough for Angelina to agree to be my date!" Fred said with a mixture of testiness and pride. "Who're _you_ taking? Flint?"

George gagged. "Never! I'm thinking Katie. Hey! Katie?" he hollered over to where said Chaser was sitting at a table, working on her Charms homework.

"Not on your life," she laughed. "I'm going with Oliver!" George pouted as Fred preened.

"What about you, Ronnikins?" Fred asked his little brother. "You going to ask little Granger? She's cute for a firstie."

John blanched as Sherlock his a grin, wondering how Greg would react to being called cute. "That a no?" asked George. "Well, then. Maybe Lavender? Or are Hufflepuffs more your taste? I hear Abbotts looking for a date!" John made a face.

"No." He said, irritated as he tried to focus back on his book.

"Fred, George," snapped Percy as he walked back into the room, seeing the twins bothering his littlest brother. "Leave him alone, he's obviously going with Potter." John's face turned bright cherry red, and he began to stutter out how ridiculous they were being. But Sherlock simply gave a firm nod, then turned back to his text book.

And that was the end of that.

****1047*****

It was almost the last class of the day, John realized happily as he and Sherlock made their way over to the History classroom. It was a nice way to end the day, he thought, watching Sherlock create his magnificent illusions. With Sherlock's complicated mind, he could add an amazing amount of detail to any story he set his mind to, right down to the warts on a troll or the feathers on a bird. It made History class much like watching a muggle movie, something John had missed growing up in the wizarding world.

Talk of Sherlock's talent soon spread about the school, and Seventh and Sixth years (who had break during their history period) often came to watch. There was a popular theory going around that "Harry Potter" the "Boy-Who-Lived" was so powerful that Binns was able to absorb his magic and become more lively. Which was why Binns was becoming a more interesting teacher. John wasn't sure about the likeliness of this, but he knew from talking to the other students, that before Sherlock, Binns would only teach on Goblin wars. Now, Binns was spreading out into other, more interesting areas of history.

"I wonder what class will be of, today," John said as he squeezed Sherlock's left hand with his right. Sherlock shrugged.

"Not sure," he said. "He finished up with the second on the French Families' civil wars, so it'll be a completely new topic." John let go of Sherlock when they entered the room, so that his friend could make his way to the front of the classroom where he normally sat. Three or four Seventh years were already seated along the back wall, talking and laughing quietly to each other. John sat in the front row, where he had a good view of Sherlock.

The First years filtered in eagerly. Seamus sat down on one side of John with Dean, while Colin sat on the other, with Neville sitting behind them with Gremione and Parvati. John was surprised to note that Lavender was sitting with one of the Ravenclaws on the other side of the room. But John shrugged that away as Colin offered him some jellybeans (it wasn't uncommon for kids to bring snacks to "Sherlock's History Cinema").

Binns floated through the back wall and gave Sherlock a faint smile. "As you all know," he began in his monotone. "Today is Halloween, so, with help from my wonderful assistance," he waved a hand towards Sherlock. "I will be straying from the curriculum for todays' lesson." He paused as a group of Sixth years snuck in to sit with the Sevenths. "I'm sure most of you have heard of _Beedle the Bard_. Beedle the Bard was a wizard who lived in the fifteenth century. This was a time of war, and wizards were alternately worshiped for the power they offered in battle, a feared for their strange ways. Not much of Wizarding history was actually documented in his lifetime, which is why this man is such a marvel.

For, you see, a large number of his stories survived. But history scholars to this day are uncertain whether his tales are actual history, or fables. There is little known about him, except that he was born in Yorkshire, and had a rather impressive beard."

The classroom was quiet except for the sound of students munching on their snacks. "Today, in honor of Halloween I will tell you a story than has survived better than others. Most of Beedle's tales have been twisted over time, told from storyteller to storyteller, altered slightly with every new mouth. And yet, this one remains the same: The Warlock's Hairy Heart."

Understanding seemed to light in Sherlock's eyes as he raised his wand. Suddenly, the room distorted and they were seated in the midst of a grand ballroom, where people in old fashioned robes spun and twirled to music. Laughter filled the halls. There, standing next to Sherlock, was a tall, handsome man with dark hair and gleaming blue eyes.

" **There once was a handsome, rich and talented young warlock, who observed that his friends grew foolish when they fell in love** " came Binn's voice echoing all around. Sherlock's doing, John was sure. " **Gambling and preening, losing their appetites and their dignity. The young warlock resolved to never fall prey to such weakness, and so employed Dark Arts to ensure his immunity.** " In a swirl of cloaks and robes reminiscent to their dear Potion's Master, the warlock stormed from the ballroom. The other witches and wizards only paused for a moment, to watch him go, but then they simply laughed some more and kept dancing. " **Unaware, his friends and family laughed to see him so aloof and cold.**

" **'All will change', they prophesied, 'when a maid catches his fancy!'**

 **"But the young warlock remained untouched by 'fancy', though many a maiden was intrigued by his haughty mien, and employed their most subtle arts to please him. None succeeded in toughing his heart. The warlock gloried in his indifference and the sagacity that had produced it.**

The ball shifted to show that of a sprawling meadow, with young children playing about while their parents watched. Under the shadow of a large tree, the warlock just glared at all of them. **"The first freshness of youth maned, and the warlock's peers began to wed, and then to bring for children. 'Their hearts must be as husks,' he sneered as he watched. 'shrivelled by the demands of their mewling offspring!'**

 **"And once again he congratulated himself upon his wisdom."** As the students watched, the sky faded to black, then grey and the people all disappeared, save for the warlock. Instead of standing beneath a tree, in was instead staring impassively at two headstones amongst a graveyard. He wore a smirk.

 **"In due course, his own parent's aged and died. Their son did non mourn them; on the contrary he considered himself lucky to be rid of them. Now he reigned alone in their castle, with naught but the servants to bother him."** The graveyard became a grand hall, in which the warlock sat upon a throne. **"The warlock, wealthy above all others, was sure he must be an object of envy to all who beheld his splendid, untroubled, solitude. Fierce was his anger and chagrin, therefore"** the students watched as The warlock swept off his throne, and stalked towards a door. The warlock had paused and was listening. The whole room seemed to move, until they were on the other side of the door, watching two men, obviously servants engaged in conversation. " **when he overheard two of his servants discussing him. One expressed pity for his master, who, with all his power and riches, was loved by nobody. The other jeered, asking why such a man with so much gold was unable to attract a wife. Their words dealt dreadful blow to this man's pride**." John watched, as fascinated as the rest of the class as the man Sherlock was controlling vowed to take a wife that should be superior to all others. The warlock listed off everything he desired in her: physical beauty, grace, lineage, power, wealth and intelligence.

Once again, the ballroom appeared, showing the warlock watching one of the visiting maidens. She was gorgeous with soft red hair flowing past her waist and large green eyes. Every man there felt a pull on their heart as they beheld her, " **Save for one",** Binns said. **"For the warlock felt nothing at all. Never the less, he began to pay her court.** " A great change seemed to come over the warlock. Suddenly, he was dressed in vibrant colors. He smiled and stood tall, he changed from languid and broody to a charming gentleman with a wave of Sherlock's wand. A dozens scenes flashed by as Binns spoke: The warlock and the maiden on a boat ride, on horseback in the woods, in a meadow of flowers, sitting in their garden, dancing…

" **All who noticed the warlock's change were amazed, and congratulated the woman on succeeding where many had failed. The maiden herself was both flattered and repelled by the warlock, sensing the frost beneath the warmth. She'd never met a man so strange. Her kinsfolk, however, pressured her. For they found the match favorable. Eager to promote it, they accepted the warlock's invitation to a great feast in the maiden's honor."**

They were in a dining room, with crystal chandeliers and silk table clothes. The table was set with platters of silver and gold, bearing the finest wines and most expensive foods. Minstrels strummed their lutes and sang of the love their master had never felt. The maiden was sitting upon her own throne beside that of the warlock's. The man was leaning towards her, muttering softly into her ears, with a fake smile. **"He spoke to her many pretty things and words of tenderness stolen from the poets, without any idea of their true meaning. The maiden listened, then declared. 'You speak well, Warlock, and I would be delighted by your intentions…if only I had your heart!"** They watched as the warlock sat back with a strange, pleased expression. They watched as he bid her follow, and then with the couple, they all left the ball.

The warlock led the maiden down away from the feast and into his locked dungeon. He pulled her by the hand to the far end of the stone room, where a single chest sat. It was old, that much was sure, and it created as the warlock opened it. He pulled out a gleaming piece of crystal, as large as her head. Inside…was the warlock's beating heart.

The maiden screamed and backed away. Many off John's classmates recoiled at the sight, and John had to give Sherlock points for creativity. " **Long since disconnected from eyes, ears and fingers,"** Binns droned, adding to the creepiness. " **It had never fallen prey to beauty, or music, nor love. The heart was shrunken, and covered in long, black hair.** " John bit down the 'obviously' that tried to leap from his throat.

The man tried to hand it to her, but she refused to take it. The woman cried out in horror at the warlock, who looked confused, in a way that reminded John of Sherlock when he realized John was upset but hadn't the faintest idea why. " **The woman begged him to put it back where it belonged, and, seeing it was necessary to please her, he drew he wand, unlocked the crystal casket, sliced open his own breast and replaced the hairy heart in the empty cavity it had once occupied."**

John was regretting eating all those jellybeans. Sherlock was having way too much fun with the illustration, if his manic grin was anything to go by. **"'Now, you are healed, and can know true love!' the maiden cried as she threw herself forward to embrace him. The touch, scent, and sound of her all pierced the newly awakened heart like a spear. But his heart had grown strange during it's long exile in the darkness to which it had been condemned to grown perverse."**

There were many startled gasps as the entire room went dark. " **The guests soon realized the absence of the maiden and the warlock. Anxious as the hours passed, they began to search the castle. The found the dungeon last, and a most dreadful sighed awaited them there."** The lights came back, and Lavender screamed. In a puddle of blood, the maiden lay dead. The warlock was kneeling over her, holding in one hand a great, smooth, shining heart which he kissed and caressed, vowing to exchange it for his own. In his other hand, he held his wand, trying to coax from his own chest the hairy hear, but it was stronger than he was, and refused to move. To the horror of the class and the conjured guests, the man threw aside his wand and pulled a dagger from his boot. Renewing his vow to never be mastered by his own heart, he plunged it deep within his own chest.

For one moment, he stood triumphant, a heart in each hand.

Then, he fell over dead.

With a gust of magic, it all faded, and the classroom returned to normal. There was stunned silence at the ending. "For homework!" Binns interrupted the quiet. "I want you to do research on Adalbert Waffling's Fundamental Laws of Magic! I expect a two foot essay from each of you, explaining how Waffling's research lines up with the story. I also which for you to include what you believe the moral to be." With that, the old ghost floated off, to Dumbledore knows where, and left the students alone as they, once again, applauded Sherlock's performance.

*****1047*****

Gremione was still fuming from their Charm's lesson. They had learned the levitation charm that day, fairly easy. It started out the same as the other charms lessons that week. John and Sherlock sat squished together, hands intertwined under the table. Seamus sat next to him with Dean, and Parvati had teamed up with Colin. Lavender was sitting with one of her Ravenclaw friends, again. Gremione had shrugged, and decided to sit with Neville that day. The class was unsurprised when, as soon as Flitwick announced what charm they were doing, Sherlock's feather began to drift across the room.

The ravens all sighed in resigned resentment, and picked up their wands. The Gryffindors snickered and cheered. Flitwick, beaming, awarded him five points. But then the drama had started when her classmates attempted the charm themselves. Oh, Merlin, their pronunciation was _atrocious!_ Everything from "Wingardum levosa" to "Windindum Lemonova" was shouted as they waved their wands about like half-witted muggles.

Everyone was startled into silence when Lavender's Ravenclaw friend snapped. "It's not _Windarvos lenoda._ It's _Windgardium Leviosa!_ Honestly, it's NOT THAT HARD!" Lavender's face screwed up, and you could tell the raven regretted her words, but before she could apologuise, Lavender fled the room. Flitwick sighed and took two points away from Ravenclaw, making the raven at fault flush in shame.

 _Swish and flick_ , Gremione's feather floated up. Then she raised her hand. "Yes, Ms. Granger?" Flitwick asked her.

"Since I've completed to lesson," she said. "May I go check on Lavender?" Receiving a grateful nod, Gremione slid out of her seat and gathered up her books. As she passed by the boys, John waved at her, to get her attention.

"Do you want me to come along, too?" John asked. Sherlock looked displeased and tightened his hold around John's waist. Greg smiled fondly at her best friends and shook her head. Greg wandered down the hall, looking both ways down the corridor. _If I were a sobbing little girl_ , she thought, _where would I hide?_ Thinking about it, she narrowed down the possibilities to the girl's dorm, one of the bathrooms, or an empty classroom. Out of all them, the second option seemed most likely, as the dorm was all the way across the castle, and a first year wouldn't be sure what classroom was truly unused.

Greg sighed as she trekked to the nearest bathroom. She always hated going into public restrooms, now that she was female. It always made her feel like a dirty old man. As she drew closer, she could hear sobbing coming from inside. With a deep breath, Greg pushed open the door and stepped in. She could see Lavender sitting on the ground in the far stall. Gremione grimaced, thinking of how dirty the floor must be.

"Lavender?" she called out. "Are you okay?"

"Go away Gremione," Lavender's voice was thick and trembling. "I don't want to talk right now." Gremione felt a small grin rise up on her lips for a brief moment, hearing Lavender calling her by the nickname Sherlock had given her. Most people assumed he was accidently mixing her first and last names, only four people knew better. Forcing her facial expression into one of cool understanding, Greg approached her and drew his wand. With a wave, she unlocked the stall and sat down next to Lavender.

They sat there for a while, shoulder to shoulder, until Lavender finally spoke up. "I got a necklace from my uncle, it was really pretty. It a little blue flower on the locket, and a picture of my baby brother inside. My baby brother died last year. He got dragon pox, and he was too little to fight it off. I showed it to Parvati, and the next day it was gone." Lavender sobbed again. "I _know_ she took, because she was telling me how much she wanted it. I don't think she knew about the picture of Maxwell, but it's still the only one I had!" Lavender wailed, throwing her arms around Hermione. "I don't care if she borrowed it, but she's not giving it back and I'm afraid that she lost it! If only she'd admit it, I'd forgive her, but she won't! She won't even help me look!" Lavender kept crying and Gremione, not thinking she should say anything, just patted her back consolingly. She hadn't known about Lavender's brother.

After a while, she quieted down, but neither girl made a move to get up. "Thanks, Gremione," Lavender said quietly.

"No problem," Greg said. "I'll help you look for it."

"Okay." Lavender said, still not moving. Greg mentally sighed, but didn't try pushing her off.

****1047****  
The food at the feast was incredible. It made even Sherlock feel hungry. The tables were fairly groaning with the weight of all the food. Sherlock looked up at John, who was practically drooling. The Gryffindor First years sat down excitedly, barely waiting for Dumbledore to finish speaking to dig in. Sherlock helped himself to a bowl of pumpkin soup, and grabbed a buttery piece of bread, surprising his dorm mates. Though John looked extremely pleased, giving Sherlock a pat on the head before loading up his own plate.

Sherlock drank from his bowl like a cup, then dunked his bread in John's mashed potatoes as he ate. Seamus and Dean were having a contest, to see who could eat the most drumsticks and ribs in one go. Neville was gorging himself on Halloween sweets, and Colin was munching happily on cob corn. The only one who didn't seem to be eating, was Parvati. The girl was sullently picking at a piece of chicken pot pie, while fingering something around her throat.

"What's wrong?" John asked the same moment that Sherlock spoke up "Where's Greg?" The boys all looked around, Parvati only sinking lower in her seat. "I can't believe they're missing this!" Dean cried, taking another messy bite of rib.

"We should go look for them," John said firmly, rising from his seat and trying to pull Sherlock with him. The other boys looked mournfully at the food, but to their credit, they all began to get up as well. Dean and Seamus were just wiping off their hands when the Great Hall's entrance doors burst open.

"TROLL!" a shrill voice cried. In unison, 300 heads spun to take in the rumpled form of their DADA professor. "T-troll in the dun-dungeon!" Quirrel shrieked. Then he gasped, looking very pale. "Thought you ought to know" he said weakly before collapsing. There were exactly two beats of silence before a tiny first year Hufflepuff started screaming bloody-murder. It didn't take long for everyone else to join her.

"Silence!" Dumbledore's voice echoed about the room. "Prefects, escort your housemates to the dorms. You will finish the feast there. Professors, come with me." Percy was the first to act, taking hold of John by the arm, to ensure that his baby brother wouldn't get shoved to the ground by stampeding Gryffindors.

"Gryffindors!" Percy called out. "This way, follow me!" John struggled in his brother's grip.

"Greg!" he said. "She doesn't know about the troll!" John looked for Sherlock, only to realize that his friend was missing. "Sherlock!" he cried. "Percy, Percy, Percy!" John tugged on his older brother's sleeve. The redhead looked down in worry.

"What is it, Ronny?" he asked, his voice soft as ever. "Is your leg hurting, do you need me to carry you?" John's face burned with shame. Percy seemed to take this as confirmation and bent to scoop up his brother. But John gripped his forearm.

"No!" he cried. "Sherlock went after the troll!" Percy's face went pale. "You have to help me find him! Please!" Percy's eyes steeled.

"No, Ron," he said firmly. "You're not going anywhere near a troll. I shall inform a teacher as soon as I get everyone to the dorms. GRYFFINDORS THIS WAY!" John jerked out of Percy's grasp and ran to the Slytherin table, where the students were stubbornly refusing to move, grumbling about how the troll was probably smashing their dorm.

"Mycroft!" John cried, oblivious to Percy panicking behind him. "Sherlock went after the troll! Or Greg, I'm not sure." Mycroft's eyes went wide.

"Where is Greg?" he demanded.

"Third floor bathroom!" Mycroft jumped up, ignoring the protests of his prefects, and ran out of the Hall with John on his tail.

"Since that is closer, let's warn Greg before searching for Sherlock. Hopefully my idiot brother can stay out of trouble that long!" John glared at the back of Mycroft's head. Since when did Mycroft put anyone above Sherlock? Suddenly, Mycroft stopped running, John collided with his back, sending them both tumbling.

"B-boys?" asked a voice. John looked up. There was Quirrel, looking fine. What was he doing here?

*****1047******

Greg had finally convinced Lavender to come with her to the feast. "It'll be fine, and I'll help you find your locket. I promise!" Lavender washed her face one last time and took a deep breath. "Let's go," she said. "It's starting to reek in here." The two girls turned to the door, only to freeze in terror.

"EEEEEIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII"

*********1047******

 _Lavender_ , Sherlock's mind supplied as he raced down the corridor. Apparently the troll had made its way to the third floor. _Or,_ said his brain _, the troll was never in the dungeons in the first place_. "Come, John" Sherlock said to the empty air behind him. "We have to hurry. Merlin knows Lavender won't be able to hold off a troll on her own." Then he paused, grinning. "First a Cerberus, now a troll," he said happily. "Do you think we'll find a dragon next, John?"

Without waiting for his friend to reply, Sherlock dashed, coattails flying, towards the source of the sound and smell coming down the hall. "Good god, John, that smells!" Sherlock wrinkled his nose. He watched the troll shuffle into the bathroom, adding up data in his head. "It's a fully grown mountain troll, John. Its skin is impervious to any magical attacks we know right now. Our best bet would be to use the environment. You distract the troll, John, and I'll collapse the ceiling on it!" with that he ran into the bathroom yelling "BOMBARDA!" with his wand pointed above the troll's head.

"Sherlock!" Greg's voice called out to him as bricks and wood fell from the ceiling. The air was soon filled with debris dust, and the bathroom was in shambles. But the troll was only dazed. "Run Lavender," Greg told the frightened girl. But the girl only shook in fear at the sight of the troll, who was beginning to get back up.

"Just leave her and run!" Sherlock told her. If Greg had the time she would have sighed at her friend. As it was, she whipped out her wand.

"Wingardium Leviosa!" she cried with a swish and a flick. Just as the troll was about to smash them to bits with his club, the large hunk of wood sailed out of his hands. The troll grunted in confusion, and Sherlock took his opening.

"Aguamenti!" he said in an authoritative voice, sending a jet up water up the troll's nose. The troll cried out in anguish, as Sherlock cast another spell. "Glacies Maxima!" The water, and the troll, turned to ice. "Bombarda" Sherlock said almost lazily as he waved his wand at the troll statue. Lavender shrieked again as she was pelted by frozen chucks of troll meat.

Just then, footsteps echoed down the hall. Lavender's eyes grew wide and Greg grew pale. Sherlock simply fluffed up his hair, trying to get all the troll bits out of it. Five people rushed through the door, then stopped as they took in the absolute devastation that used to be the girls lavatory. McGonagall had a small blonde by the hand, and Snape held a larger blonde by the shoulder. Professor Quirrel stood off to the side, his mouth gaping.

"SHERLOCK!" John dove for his friend. Instead of giving him a hug, like Sherlock had been anticipating upon seeing John enter the room (after getting over his confusion as to why John was _there_ instead of _here_ ) John began mercilessly wailing on him with tiny clutched fists. "You utter prat!" he scolded angrily. "You moron! You git! You're supposed to be a genius! What kind of genius goes after a mountain troll?!"

"A Gryffindor genius," said the ex-Holmeses at once before glaring (in the case of Sherlock) and smirking condescendingly (in the case of Mycroft) at each other. McGonagall scowled while Snape masterfully hid a smirk. John looked like steam should have been billowing out of his ears before deflating and gripping Sherlock's skinny frame in a death grip.

"Do you three," McGonagall spoke up "have any idea what could have happened? What on earth possessed you to go after a troll? You could have been _killed_. What were you…"

"It's all my fault," said Lavender softly, interrupting her Head of House. "Parvati and I got in a fight, so I was hiding in here. Gr—I mean, Hermione came and sat with me, but I guess we ended up missing the feast. Sherlock had come to find us, because he was worried, but the the troll came. We didn't go looking for trouble, honest."

"I can attest that that is what happened," Mycroft said. "When we heard about the troll being in the dungeons, the prefects had us Slytherins stay at the table, since, you know, our _dorms_ are down there. But the John came over and asked if Sherlock was with me. When we realized he was still gone, we went to go find a teacher, as by that point all the adults had left the room. We thought it'd be safe, since we'd been told the monster was in the dungeons…not the third floor bathrooms."

"And we did find a teacher," piped in John.

"Gryffindors indeed," Sherlock heard Snape mutter under his breath, but McGonagall didn't appear to, as she began to look appeased.

"Well," she sighed. "While what you did was foolish, you were not, actually, breaking any rules. Next time, however, send a prefect to find a professor instead of looking for one yourself. But that brings us to the matter of _what happened to the troll?_ "

"I used aguamenti up it's nose," said Sherlock calmly. "Then I froze the water. Then I blew it up. I like blowing things up."

"You're not supposed to blow _living_ things up, Mr. Potter!"

"It was going to kill Greg and Lilac!"

Despite herself, McGonagall let out a slightly hysterical giggle. "Take fifteen points to Gryffindor, then," McGonagall said. "For protecting your friends."

"You can't _reward him_ for things like this," Mycroft said, scandalized. "Don't you know anything? Rewarding him like that will make him want to do it again!" Snape let out a suspicious cough.

"To your dorms!" Minerva ordered. "I'll hear no more about it!"

Snape led a grumbling Malfoy away, and Sherlock watched them curiously. John tugged Sherlock along as McGonagall escorted them to Gryffindor tower. Half an hour later, they were all fed, showered and ready for bed. As John crawled in next to Sherlock, closing the bed's curtains behind him, he best friend asked "Did you see why Snape was limping?"

*****1047****  
 **Sorry, I know that's a weird ending, I just couldn't think of where to end it. Thank you all for your reviews! Loves you!**


	9. Not Really, But Sort Of

**HEY! Another chapter done (*gives self a high-five*). I'd update a whole lot quicker, but I've got midterms this week and then I had a choir concert yesterday, and I've got a viola recital coming up and then after that my orchestra will be performing (-and Omg I _really_ need to practice-). But enough excuses, thank you everybody who reviewed! Yous are my muses!**

 **Murder Junkie: OMG! When I read your interpretation of TJLCFTW I about died laughing! Thank you so much for your amazing review! Also…no, Colin is not Molly, but he does tie into Sherlock's past. Molly is still alive. I'm trying to find a a way to incorporate her into this story, but I've come up empty on ideas so far. Anyone got any ideas for me?**

 **May the gods be ever in your favor**

Sherlock was not happy.

John wasn't eating.

Sherlock suddenly realizes why John is so insistent on him eating. "Open your mouth," he demands, scooping up a handful of hash browns. John, looking pale and queasy shakes his head. Sherlock frowned deeper. "Yes"

"I'm fine, Sherlock," John insists.

"If you're fine, then eat"

"I'm not hungry"

"You're always hungry"

"You're the one who always says eating is pointless!"

" _You're the one insisting on participating in a death match a hundred feet in the air!_ " Sherlock threw the hash browns. John ducked quickly, his eyes now very wide. Greg, who was sitting on the other side of him, ended up getting a face full of potatoes. "You need your strength!"

"He's right, Ronnie" Fred said as he sat down across from his little brother.

"Yeah," added in George. "The Beaters always go after the Seekers first. And you're so small a good hit from a bludger will send you flying straight off your broom." John and Sherlock both paled considerably. George looked guilty while Fred whacked him across the back of his head.

"What I mean," Fred continued. "Is that you'll want to eat so you can think clearly during the match. We've got a good team, but you'll still want to be the one to catch the snitch first."

"I know," said John as he half-heartedly started picking at the plate Sherlock had piled up for him. Sherlock subtly scooted closer, so that their sides were pressed together.

"If you fall," Sherlock whispered without looking at John. "I'll catch you," John paused and looked over at his friend, who appeared very tense and worried. John didn't say anything back, but he took hold of Sherlock's hand tightly and began to eat with a bit more enthusiasm. All too soon, it was time to head down to the pitch. None of John's teammates questioned it when Sherlock followed them into the locker room.

***1047****

Voldemort watched in boredom as his host climbed the Quidditch stands up to the Professor's area. He'd never been one for Quidditch, but today was necessary. The youngest Weasley whelp had seen him, Quirrell, approaching the corridor where the old fool was keeping the stone. As did the Malfoy brat, but the Malfoys were one of his own, he'd let the child live for now.

But Weasley, the child was too perceptive for his own good. The small blonde thing was constantly sending him strange glances, suspicious looks. Any other child, and Voldemort might have considered recruiting them when they were older. Weasley was magically powerful, a pureblood, well-mannered and well-connected. However, it was who he was connected _to_.

He was best friends with Harry Potter. If Weasley suspected him, he could pass it on to Potter, who would alert Dumbledore. Not that Dumbledore didn't already suspect. There was always the idea of recruiting Potter, the boy was interesting to be sure. More powerful than even _he_ was at that age (loath as he was to admit it). He was intelligent, far more than any Voldemort had ever met. He'd even somehow cured the Weasley brat of a life-long disability _before ever coming to Hogwarts_. It's probably what made the smallest Weasley boy so loyal to him.

But, no, it was too risky. He was probably already too deep in Dumbledore's pocket.

****1047****

Sherlock was going to murder Dumbledore for allowing his John to play a death-game with boys almost twice his size.

He waited on a bench near John's things while his friend changed into Quidditch robes. Fred and George were laughing and chatting loudly, a bit too loudly Sherlock noticed. They were nervous, despite having been on the team the last two years. It was because of John, Sherlock deduced. The captain, Oliver, seemed overly happy. Also because of John, Sherlock immediately thought. The girls seemed subdued, but not nervous. Determined.

John was a wreck, though. He came out clutching his Nimbus in a death grip. His clothes were all crooked and he was trembling slightly. Sherlock got up and began smoothing out John's robes. "You'll be fine," Sherlock said, with confidence he didn't feel. It wasn't that he didn't trust that John was capable. Logically he knew that John flew better than many of the upper years. However foolish sentiment flooded his brain with all the possibilities of how things could go wrong, and leave John speared on his broom or smeared on the grass below.

Sherlock gripped John tightly. "You'll be fine" he said again, not sure who he was really reassuring. John hugged him back, briefly. Then he stepped away and took a deep breath.

"You ready?" asked one of the older girls, kindly. John gave her a weak smile. Sherlock restrained from glaring at her. A moment later, Sherlock headed up to the stands as John and his team made their way onto the pitch. He spotted Gremione seated beside Hagrid, waving her arms, beckoning him to sit with them.

"I'm so jealous!" Greg said enthusiastically. "I want to try out for Chaser position next year!" Sherlock absently nodded as the Gryffindors around him cheered for their team, who had lifted up into the air. A boy, Jordan, was calling out scores somewhere to his left. But Sherlock had eyes only for John who was watching the game with enraptured eyes. Without warning, John dived, his eyes glued straight ahead. "Weasley and Weasley block a hit from Flint and send it back! Wait, Weasley's spotted the snitch!" Lee Jordan cried out. That got the attention of the Slytherin Seeker, who immediately followed John in his descent. The two raced neck and neck all around the pitch. At one point, they both got very close, arm's out stretched. When John suddenly veered left, surprising the Slytherin who crashed his broom onto the grass three feet below where he'd been flying.

John looked about frantically. So, he'd lost it. "Ne'er would have though' John there would be so good at it," Hagrid said fondly. "Not when I'd known him back when he were just a li'l tike. His mam was ever so worried, she was. What with his limp an' all." Sherlock was about to respond to Hagrid, when Gremione suddenly gasped.

"His broom!" Sherlock's head whipped around so fast it hurt. He stood to his feet, hands gripping the railing tightly. John's broom was bucking like an angry mule. John was barely able to hold on. An especially furious buck made John's legs fly up and John fell, suspended only by his hands. The Gryffindors were all on their feet now, screaming at the Slytherins, accusing them of foul play. John lost grip with one of his hands, he struggled to replace it.

"What's wrong wit 'is broom?" Hagrid asked, voice sounding strangled.

"Look," said Hermione, though Sherlock ignored her, not looking away from John. "It's Snape! He's cursing John's broom!" Now, Sherlock looked in the direction she was pointing. His eyes narrowed, then he paled.

"JOHN" Sherlock screamed at the top of his lungs, positioning himself in front of Hagrid. "JOHN LET GO!" By the help of some benevolent god, or by accidental magic on Sherlock's part, John heard him over the sound of the screaming crowd, somehow. He glanced to Sherlock, then closed his eyes.

"What are you doing?" Greg muttered horrified. John let go. The crowd cried out in horror.

"Accio John!" Sherlock's wand was in his hand, and suddenly John stopped falling. He hovered in air for half and instant, then flew straight for Sherlock, mouth wide open, screaming in terror. John collided with Sherlock to abruptly that both boys flew backwards, smacking into Hagrid's large belly. Sherlock recovered first, forcing his aching body to his feet, then kneeling beside John, who was bent over all on fours, gasping. "John? John are you okay?" John wasn't answering. He was clutching his chest, mouth open and throat constricting. Sherlock began to smack his back. With a wet hack, something small and golden landed in John's hands.

"Weasley's got the snitch! Gryffindor wins!" Lee Jordan called gleefully. The Gryffindor's all swarmed John, slapping his back, congratulating him. John beamed, holding the snitch up high. The Slytherin's booed, and called for a rematch, saying it didn't count. They went ignored by the coach. John (and Sherlock who was refusing to let go of John) were carried down to the pitch by a group of seventh years. The rest of the team touched down, cheering just as loudly as their fans, but looking a bit more concerned for their little Seeker. The twins reached Ron and Harry first.

"Ronnie!"

"Are you okay?"

"Blimey what happened with that broom?"

"It just went crazy!"

By the time the twins let go of him, Oliver had already retrieved his broom, looking happy and thoughtful. "I had McGonagall check it over, she said there's nothing wrong with it." He handed it to John. John was about to say something else when Sherlock began to drag him by his hand through the crowd of well-wishers back towards the Gryffindor locker room.

"Sherlock?" John asked tentatively. His arms were suddenly full with consulting detective, who was holding on to him so tightly John was having trouble breathing again. Sherlock was talking, but John couldn't understand what he was saying as Sherlock's face was pressed firmly into the front of his robes. "What?"

Sherlock looked up at him. "Quirrell was trying to kill you." Sherlock's grip grew tighter. "Why was he trying to kill you?" John ran a hand through Sherlock's hair, trying to calm him down.

"How do you know?"

"Gremione saw Snape staring at you, muttering. But it was Quirrell behind him that was cursing your broom. You don't need a wand to counter a curse that it being cast, you only need to be close to the source. Snape didn't have his wand out. Quirrell did." Then Sherlock went back to muttering into John's robes.

When the rest of the Gryffindor team came in a few minutes later, John flushed in embarrassment, but didn't push Sherlock away. Angela and Katie cooed at them while Oliver only rolled his eyes, still too pleased by their win to care about the strangeness of their newest teammate. The twins shared a look.

Sherlock had cured their baby brother's leg, made him confident, drew him out of his shell, and now he' saved Ron's life. Molly Weasley would be getting a letter tonight. And, as far as they were concerned, Sherlock Potter was officially a Weasley. 

*****1047*******

"I'm telling you, it was Snape!" Greg insisted. "I _know_ he's after whatever Dumbledore is hiding on the third corridor! Lavender and I were going to the staffroom yesterday to see if her…something she lost had been left in a classroom and a teacher picked it up. But when we got there, Snape was having his leg mended by Filch. He said something about a three-headed dog before he saw us and screamed at us to get out! He's obviously guilty! Why else would he be having Filch mend him rather than Pomfrey?"

"Well in all fairness she is rather scary," John joked. He was soon silenced by a glare from Hermione and long-suffering look from Sherlock.

"I agree that it is rather suspicious, but it doesn't change the fact that he _saved John_ while Quirrell was the one who tried to curse him off his broom!" Sherlock said, seating himself in John's lap. They were in Hagrid's hut, drinking hot mugs of…whatever Hagrid had handed them, celebrating Gryffindor's win. The giant, however, was currently outside picking a pumpkin he was going to gut for them, wanting them to taste freshly fried pumpkin seeds.

"So, it sounds like Quirrell used the troll as a distraction on Halloween, then went to go get whatever Dumbledore is guarding. But Mycroft and I intercepted him, stalling him long enough that McGonagall found us. After we left, Snape must have arrived, and, thinking that Quirrell had already gone in, entered the room and was bitten by Fluffy. After Fluffy chased him out, he must have heard the commotion down the hall, because he met up with us before we got to the bathroom. Then, today, Quirrell tried to kill me because I stopped him and Snape saved me."

Gremione seemed to deflate, John's explanation making sense. Sherlock's eyes were wide, a strange look lighting them up. Then Sherlock beamed "John you're brilliant," he said, twisting around to take John by the shoulders, shaking him. "Obviously Snape is on our side. Now we just need to figure out what Quirrell is doing it for? Money? Eternal life?"

"Rubbish," said Hagrid, who had just entered the hut, bearing a huge orange pumpkin. "Why would Quirrell do somethin' like that? 'Fraid of his own shadow 'e is."

"It's a front," said Sherlock. "He's trying to steal what Dumbledore has hidden here."

"Rubbish! 'es a Hogwarts teacher!"

"He tried to kill my John."

"I'm tellin' yeh, yer wrong!" said Hagrid hotly. "I don' know why John's broom acted like that, but Quirrell wouldn' try an' kill a student! Now, listen to me, all three of yeh - yer meddlin' in things that don' concern yeh. It's dangerous. You forget that dog, an' you forget what

it's guardin', that's between Professor Dumbledore an' Nicolas Flamel -" Hagrid blanched. "I shouldn'ta said that. I shouldn'ta said that."

The three kids shared a look, but said no more.

*****1047******

November soon grew very cold, even in the Gryffindor dorms, despite the large fireplace heating up the whole place. The Gryffindor first year boys soon grew jealous of Sherlock and John, who kept each other warm each night. (Though they were obviously all too manly to even consider sharing with someone). It became a common sight to see John and Sherlock snuggled up together in the morning. Sometimes one or the other was already awake, just lying there holding their best friend. But more often than not, they were both still out cold. Colin and Neville both liked to watch them (it wasn't creepy at all, nope) enjoying the peacefulness they portrayed.

So when the boys woke up one Saturday to find John sprawled out on Sherlock's bed, without the Boy-Who-Lived in sight, they immediately started to worry.

"You don't think they got in a fight, do you?"

"What if they broke up!"

"They can't break up; they're John and Sherlock!"

"Sherlock can be a pretty huge git, sometimes though. Weasley's got the patience of an angel, he has."

"But John loves him! John would dump Sherlock! And Sherlock wouldn't let him!"

"Well, where is he? The lights in the bathroom are off!"

"I dunno, maybe he went for a walk?"

"Without John? C'mon Creevy, they're practically attached by the hip!"

"I hope he's not cheating on John…."

"Maybe Sherlock's getting cold feet about Neville's Yule Ball and needs some space?"

"Why would he? It's not like they're getting married."

"Awww, but that'd be so cute though!"

"They're eleven! Blimey Creevy you sound like a bloody girl!"

By this point, John was blearily opening his eyes, frowning and the whispered argument. "Who's getting married?" he asked sleepily. Then his eyes snapped open. "Where's Sherlock?" He sat up and looked around. "Did he ever come up, last night? I went to bed before him."

The other boys all frowned thoughtfully, thinking back. Neville shook his head. "I'm pretty sure he wasn't here when I came back from the library."

Dean snapped his fingers. "The library! I was returning that copy of _Wittman's Simple Spellbook_ last night, and I saw Sherlock trying to convince Snape to let him into the restricted section!"

"Bet Sherlock was disappointed," snorted Seamus. "The man's a monster, he is. A right bat. Wouldn't be surprised if he turned out to be a vampire." Dean only shrugged. Colin looked relieved.

"You you guys aren't breaking up?" he asked hopefully. John's face turned cherry red.

"No, of course we're not!" he insisted, then choked on his own words. "I mean…we're not dating! He's not my boyfriend. We're just best friends."

"Best friends who share a bed, food, give each other expensive stuff, and go to balls together usually end up married," Seamus pointed out. John's face was so red it looked like he'd drunk five Pepper Ups and was about to starts spewing smoke out every pore. Just then, the trunk near Sherlock's bed opened up, and a ruffled looking Sherlock clambered out of it then flopped down (across John's lap) dramatically.

"I was up all night!" he pouted. "Not a _thing_ on Flammel, even **_with_** the books Snape let me take from the restricted section. That git, he saw the books I checked out and smirked. He probably _knew_ I wouldn't find anything useful!" John refused to looked at Sherlock, still embarrassed while the other boys were snickering and Sherlock typical lack of respect for personal space. "John? John? Are you listening to me, John? Am I in trouble again? What'd I do this time?"

Dean gave up the fight and collapsed to the floor in giggles. "It's like they're already married!" Sherlock sat up on John's lap, looking confused. He looked from Dean to John then to the rest of the boys who were still gathered in a sort of semicircle around their bed.

"You've been discussing our wedding?" he asked, with an unidentifiable look on his face. John shoved Sherlock onto the floor. The smallest boy hit the carpet with a _thud_ and John stormed into the bathroom, locking the door against the laughter of his dorm-mates and Sherlock voice saying "So I _am_ in trouble then. Any idea what I did?"

****1047*****

Mycroft's breakfast and conversation with Blaise was interrupted by a tiny body shoving his way between them and plopping down on the seat. "Hello, brother mine," Mycroft drawled with a sigh, taking a sip of pumpkin juice. "What can I do for you this fine morning." Before Sherlock could answer, Blaise interrupted.

"Okay, I think I've ignored all of your weirdness long enough. Why, _Draco,_ do you call him your brother? You'd never met him before this semester!"

"Because he's like the annoying little brother I'm grudgingly relieved to have again," Mycroft answered without missing a beat. Sherlock's face twisted in a strange way at this 'confession'. Blaise sighed and turned back to his meal. "I'm guessing your dilemma has something to do with why John refused to hold your hand coming into the Hall this morning."

Sherlock scowled. "Not really, but sort of."

"That's helpful"

"Unlike you"

"Sherlock, I don't even know why you're over here."

"Nor I" Sherlock muttered to himself. "I need information, Mycroft. Nicolas Flammel, ever heard of him?" Mycroft put down his fork and rubbed his chin thoughtfully.

"I believe he was briefly mentioned in a book a read some years ago. I tried looking for more information on him, he was interesting, but there wasn't anything. All the book gave was his birthdate and an empty line, signifying he's still alive, and that he was a noted alchemist."

"How is that interesting, Myc?"

"Because, _Shirley,_ the book was a hundred years old and self-updating. Furthermore, Flammel's birthdate was in 1334."

"He's almost seven hundred?" Sherlock asked, eyes wide. "I _must_ find out how he's done that! Imagine me and John," Sherlock hesitated then seemed to relent reluctantly "and you and Greg I suppose—a hundred years from now! John and I would have acres and acres of honey farm, and a case every day, because of how famous we'd be by then. You'd probably have taken over the world and Greg…I dunno I guess she can be my and John's housekeeper."

Mycroft snorted, but looked pleased that Sherlock had included him. "Don't forget me!" Blaise insisted. "I'd be Malfoy's main hitman!"

"If you really want to," Draco said. "You'd do well not to shout out that information in a crowded room." Blaise rolled his eyes.

"You both are ridiculous" he said fondly.

****1047*****

John had "forgiven" him by lunchtime, though Sherlock had yet to deduce exactly what he'd done wrong. He wasn't doing any experiments (where John could find them) and he hadn't stolen any more of John's clothing (it's just those sweaters John's new mother makes are _so_ comfy and smell like John), and he hadn't insulted anyone in **so** long; Sherlock felt extremely proud of himself. (Ha! Take _that_ Donovan! I _can_ be nice to goldfish!)

In any case, Sherlock felt extremely relieved when John sat beside him for the first time that day and squeezed his hand under the table. But, just to be sure John wasn't still mad at him he tentatively asked, "we're still going to the dance together, right John?" John winced at Sherlock's worried tone, and the way that the entire table around them fell silent to hear his answer.

John sighed. "Don't see why not. Eat your meatloaf." John tried very hard for Sherlock's sake not to get irritated at the way the female population of the table (and Colin) cooed at them. 

***1047****

November passed a bit too quickly for the "Golden Trio's" liking. Greg and Sherlock were busy researching anything they could find on Nicolas Flammel, but they only found strange obscure tidbits, like the date of his wedding or the accomplishments of his various children. John was constantly being dragged onto the Quidditch Pitch by Oliver and his own brothers to train, just in case something like last game happened again. To do this, Oliver cast a _confundus_ hex on one of the school brooms and dared John to try and catch the snitch while riding this and dodging bludgers sent his way by the twins.

The third time John came back with a bloody nose, Sherlock attacked the three older boys (both verbally and with his wand). Needless to say, by the time Sherlock was done ripping them a new one, they had agreed to be more careful with "his John"

The most exciting thing that happened that month was when Binns and Sherlock were retelling great Fell Winter that caused an entire race of magical creature to go extinct, and how wizards were blamed for not aiding the Hobbits, leading to dwarves (ancient ancestors of the goblins now at Gringotts) declaring war on them. Dumbledore himself came down to watch the show (along with most of the seventh, sixth and fifth years), armed with a large bag of muggle lemon drop candies. Sherlock went all out for that, and the entire class was shivering with the intense cold wave that Sherlock send about the classroom. Dumbledore had awarded Gryffindor fifty points for Sherlock's incredible "Mastery of Illusion".

Another event that came about was Sherlock's discovery of animagus. It happened quite by accident. Sherlock had dragged John to the Transfiguration classroom early, so that he could question McGonagall about _why_ exactly it was impossible to transfigure a book into fried chicken when it was completely possible to transfigure a book into a chicken, then fry it.

They were greeted by the sight of a cat sprawled out on McGonagall's desk. Sherlock, being the inquisitive person he is, went over to the cat and stared at it. "Funny" he said. "I thought McGonagall's familiar was that tawny owl she always gets mail from."

"Maybe she has two like me?" John suggested. Sherlock shrugged and they sat down to wait for McGonagall to show up. A moment later, and McGonagall was standing there, a stern expression on her face. Sherlock's eyes had grown wide and he'd pelted her with question after question. She'd answered every one, looking strangely proud of Sherlock, indulgently ignoring the way he was practically vibrating during the lesson, and not saying anything when as soon as she was done Sherlock dragged John from the room and to the library.

There was a surprising amount of literature on the subject of becoming animagi.

*****1047***** 

Something woke Sherlock up. He was instantly alert, and aware of a strange magic in the room. He wished he knew more about magic to know just what kind of spell it was. But whatever it was, it was cast by a light magic wielder. The spell had attached itself to him, then led to a parcel on the foot of his bed (Sherlock _knew_ it wasn't there before he fell asleep), then out of the room. A compulsion charm, he guessed.

Couldn't be a very strong one, Sherlock decided, burrowing deeper into John's arms. The blonde Weasley snuffled a bit in his sleep, but gathered Sherlock closer. Sherlock was just about asleep again when the spell redoubled in its intensity. Sherlock glowered at the parcel. It felt like an itch on the inside of his leg, along the bone. Restless Leg Syndrome, Sherlock diagnosed himself. Whatever the charm was, inaction caused it to inflict (hopefully) temporary RLS on him.

Sherlock sighed and slipped out of John's arms, careful not to wake his doctor up. Shivering in the early December air, Sherlock looked at John fondly for a moment, patted him on the head, then picked up the parcel with a world-weary sigh. A letter and a piece of fabric fell out. A cloak? Sherlock picked up the letter.

" _Mr. Potter"_ Dumbledore's handwriting. Sherlock recognized it from when he'd managed to talk Dumbledore into letting him get a book on animagi from the Restricted Section. Dumbledore had needed to sign a piece of parchment as proof of his leniency.

" _Your father left this in my possession shortly before he died,"_ the letter continued. " _Now I think it's time it was returned to its rightful owner. Use it wisely. Consider it an early Christmas gift from your late father."_ That was all, no closing or signature. Sherlock snorted, Old Father Christmas must have been trying to be mysterious. Sherlock took a look at the rather ugly cloak, but obeyed the spell and put it on.

Sherlock turned to look at himself in the mirror.

And he stared.

And stared.

And grinned. An invisibility cloak?! Oh, the things he could do! He should go prank his brother! Without another thought, Sherlock gleefully pranced from the room until the cover of his new toy. But, the compulsive charm had other ideas, and his feet led him to a room down an abandoned hallway. The door was slightly ajar. Sherlock frowned and pushed it open.

The room was dusty and filled with cobwebs. Sherlock wondered why the House Elves didn't clean this room. But then, maybe they'd decided it wasn't worth the effort. After all, the only thing in the room (besides himself) was a large, tacky mirror. Sherlock walked up to it. There didn't seem to be anything special about it, despite the echo of magic he felt surrounding the great ugly thing. He turned to John by his side.

"I wonder why the…John?" he asked. He frowned, where was John? He looked into the mirror, yup, there was John. He felt behind him without taking his eyes away from the mirror, but his hand just sliced through empty air where John should be. Sherlock frowned. He touched the mirror. The John in the mirror laughed at him and pecked Mirror Sherlock's cheek. Mirror Sherlock scowled at John, though there was laughter in his eyes. Sherlock felt his face go red.

"John?" he whispered to the mirror. Mirror John tilted his head as if to say 'Well? What are you waiting for?' Sherlock pulled the cloak back on over his shoulders and bolted from the room. He didn't bother trying to walk quietly as he ran back to the Tower. "Gethin!" Sherlock hissed at the Fat Lady, who sighed and swung open.

Sherlock took the steps two at a time, cast a quick silencing charm on his and John's shared bed then pounced on his friend. "GAH!" John screamed. Sherlock shook him, trying to wake him up faster.

"John, get up! Right now! Something to show you!" Sherlock pulled John from the blankets and swung the cloak around them both.

"Whoa! That's a—"

"Invisibility cloak, yes. But that's not it!" Sherlock grabbed John's hand and practically dragged the sleepy ex-soldier back the way he'd just come. It took a bit longer this time, because John was stumbling quite a bit. John must have run into about a dozen walls by the time Sherlock pulled him into the dark, dingy room. John tripped coming in, and ended up falling on top of Sherlock.

 _"Oof"_ Sherlock gasped as the larger boy landed on his stomach. John pushed himself up onto his elbows, shoving the cloak off of the both of them.

"What is it, Sherlock?" John demanded. "What's so important that you drag us both out of bed at two in the morning!"

"You don't actually know what time it is," Sherlock pouted. "For all you know, it could only be eleven." John tried to glare at him, but ended up giggling, which ruined the effect. He stood up and offered a hand to his barmy friend. "Besides, you'll like it." Sherlock promised as he pulled John, a little more gently this time, further into the room, until they both stood in front of the tacky mirror. Sherlock saw the exact same thing he saw last time (minus John kissing him), while John didn't see anything out of the ordinary at all.

"Sherlock?" John asked curiously. "It's a lovely mirror…but why does it merit all this fuss? It'd give it a two…at best."

Sherlock frowned, then stepped to the side. "Look at it properly, right in the middle." John sighed, but humored his friend. Then his eyes widened. He looked away from the mirror, all around, but his surroundings were the same as a few moments ago, except now Sherlock was smiling widely. There, in the mirror, was Baker Street, exactly the same as it had been…before…

Sherlock and John were standing center, hand in hand. Except, they were adults. They looked just like they had…before…but Sherlock had the famous BWL scar on his left temple, and was twirling his wand in his long fingers. John had on one of his Weasley sweaters. Mirror Sherlock and John shifted closer, smiling warmly at each other, Sherlock's arm going about John's shoulders, and John's going about Sherlock's waist. In the background…a tall, slender man with long blonde hair stood smirking at them. Mycroft, John realized. A striking woman with a fierce stance was laughing with an older looking version of Harry Watson. Greg, John smiled at her, and she waved back before returning to her conversation with John's older sister.

Neville was there, too offering herbal tea to Colin and Molly Weasley. Percy, Bill and Charlie were chatting in the corner with Dean and Seamus while Arthur Weasley stared in wonder at the muggle TV.

A lump caught in John's throat. His eyes stung because _all of this was possible_. "Sherlock" John managed to get out. Sherlock was there in an instant, and John almost protested, except the image on the mirror didn't waver. Mirror Sherlock only smirked at him, then planted a firm kiss on the mouth of Mirror John. Real John's face lit up red.

"What is it, John?" Sherlock asked. "What do you see?"

"B-Baker Street" John said weakly. "I see us there. We look about mid-thirties…Mycroft and Gremione…Neville, Colin, Dean, Seamus and my family are there as well."

"Why on earth is Mycroft there?" Sherlock asked.

"I dunno," John admitted. "He's just there, smiling at you in that condescending way of his." Sherlock _harrumphed._ "Sherlock?" asked John in a small voice, looking at the Mirror version of themselves, who were comfortably leaning against each other, carrying on a conversation John couldn't hear. "Do you think this shows the future?" John tried not to think of the implications. After all, he was straight. He knew that, he'd been into girls since he was a small boy _the first time around_. Not that there was anything _wrong_ with it. He loved his older sister, and she was a lesbian. It's just that _he wasn't_. And as far as he knew Sherlock wasn't ei…well, no, that's a lie. He had no idea about Sherlock.

"It's possible," Sherlock said thoughtfully, taking John's hand. "I saw myself showing you this mirror and…" Sherlock paused with a strange look on his face, like he was waiting for something. After a few minutes, John spoke up nervously.

"And…" he prompted. Sherlock looked disappointed, like John had said the wrong thing.

"Well it came true, didn't it?" Sherlock shrugged. "I hope it is," he said quietly. "I miss Baker Street. I wonder why Mycroft is there, though? Maybe it's some sort of holiday—Oh, of course!" Sherlock said brightly. "It's probably Christmas time in the mirror, and you'd obviously invite Greg and your family, so Mycroft would naturally invite himself!" John laughed at that.

"Let's go back to bed," John told him, then flushed. "I-I-I mean, go back to sleep"

"Yes," Sherlock said, bemusedly. "Otherwise you'll be cranky tomorrow and blame me."

"Well it'd be your fault, now wouldn't it?"

*****10478*****

 **I'd like to thank hugiedog for her help in editing this chapter!**


	10. The Gold Digger

**Hey guys, sorry it's been so long. I've been feeling a bit under the weather. Thank you so much for all of your reviews! Most of them were very kind. A few people mentioned that they have an issue with my portrayal of John and Sherlock's relationship. I can respect that my interpretation of Sherlock isn't the same as somebody else's, but please refrain from insulting my work. That's all that this story is: my interpretation of the art that is Sherlock.**

 **Also, not sure why some people were finding the last chapter done in all bold. It didn't look like that when I saw it, maybe the site was glitching, idk, but I'll keep an eye on it. Thanks for letting me know, guys.**

 **Anyway, thank you to everyone who is still reading and supporting my story. It means a lot! Hope you all enjoy this chapter.**

Sherlock kept giving John weird looks all week, almost expectantly. When John would venture to ask him what was wrong, Sherlock wouldn't answer, only looking oddly disappointed. John hoped he wasn't acting strangely, causing Sherlock to look at him that way. John was trying hard not to let what he saw in that mirror affect him. He didn't start pushing Sherlock away, or maintaining a normal (for other people) amount of space between them, no matter how much he'd wanted to at first. Even now, Sherlock was sitting on the edge of John's (their) bed, brows furrowed and hands clasped under his chin, as though he were praying.

John paused from where he was packing up Sherlock's trunk, making sure that his friend had all of his clothing and various knick-knacks packed for the holiday. "Sherlock" he asked hesitantly. When his friend didn't make any move to show that he had heard, John stood and walked over to him. He edged himself up onto the bed, so that his and Sherlock's legs were touching, pressed together. He nudged Sherlock's shoulder with his own, but the smaller boy only frowned deeper. John took hold of his best friend's hand, stroking the pale skin with his thumb.

Sherlock had said that it was possible the mirror showed the future. John had tried his hardest not to think about it. So of course it was all he could think about. Merlin's soggy pants, he was eleven! He shouldn't have to worry about things like this yet! He turned to look at Sherlock and wondered what was going on in his head. He'd always wondered if Sherlock's "mind palace" was an actual imaginary structure that Sherlock wandered around in whenever the real world got too boring.

John smiled at him, releasing his hand and sliding off the bed, going back to folding Sherlock's laundry and placing them neatly inside his friend's trunk. A moment later, Dean and Neville walk in, apparently deep in conversation about whether or not "those idiots" would get "together" before or after the end of holiday break.

"I'll bet it'll happen at your party," Dean declared.

"It's not a party, it's a ball," Neville sniffed haughtily, but with a grin. Then they both saw John and Sherlock and froze. Neville's face flushed pink, but Dean just smirked and strolled over to where Sherlock was staring into space blankly. Dean waved a hand in front of Sherlock's nose, giggling when Sherlock didn't so much as blink. "Earth to Sherlock? Come in Mr. Potter" Dean sighed and looked over at where John was packing. The taller boy frowned and tilted his head, looking at the name etched on the side of the trunk.

John's face grew red as Dean's smirk got wider, though he refused to stop packing for Sherlock just because his dorm mate was a prat. "He's lucky he's got you, or he'd probably have to deal with reusing the same three pairs of underwear all break, huh Mrs. Potter?" John responded with the utmost maturity…that is to say, by throwing one of said pairs of underwear at Dean's head.

****1047****

Sherlock was slightly nervous about meeting John's family. He'd only met Harry Watson once in his previous life, and it was very briefly. She'd been mostly indifferent towards him, just smirking at her brother, saying she'd always known he played for the "right" team. John had then grown angry, protested that he wasn't gay, then had promptly ignored Sherlock for the rest of the day, never to suggest Harry and Sherlock ever be in the same area at the same time again.

Now, he was frantically searching through the horribly small amount of data he had on polite and socially acceptable behavior. Most of which consisted of things John had offhandedly told him like "You know, normal people don't rub the faces of corpses with acid" or "A normal bloke wouldn't need to be told that decapitated fingers don't belong in the ice tray". Information like this would hardly help him at all, it's not like John would allow him to bring any experiments to his new family's house anyway.

He found a long buried memory of Mycroft teaching a much younger version of himself "proper" table manners. It was blurred a bit at the edges, but it would do. Sherlock watched it carefully, almost wistfully, remembering the first bit of his previous life he was rather close with his older brother. He waited for the expected feeling of disgust to rise up in him, that usually happened whenever he thought fondly of his older brother. But it never came, and it left Sherlock feeling slightly off balance. Instead, he called up memories of Mrs. Hudson and John tending to clients whenever they came to their old flat, and observed how they acted.

A strange feeling of loss took over him as he watched his old ex-not-your-house-keeper putter around making tea. She was old (Sherlock wasn't sure how old, he probably deleted it at some point), and had lived a full life when she had died. Perhaps that it why she, unlike the rest of the people who were present, was nowhere to be found.

He was pulled out of his thoughts by slightly chilled hands gently tapping his cheek. (John, recently been in the corridor, he sounds amused, been trying to get my attention for a while, then?) Sherlock opened his eyes, exiting his mind palace. (Just stuck his head out the window from the looks of his hair. Trunk is packed, John did Sherlock's but neglected to remember to pack his own pajama bottoms, which were still tucked under his pillow where he always put them.)

"I take it the carriages are being prepared already?" Sherlock said, not missing the fond look that appeared on John's face at his deductions. "By the way, you forgot your pajamas" Sherlock nodded over at the head of their bed. John sighed and reached under the pillow.

"Always something," John said with a grin. Sherlock returned it, sliding off the bed. He looked around. Neville had already taken all of his things and left. His Grandmother probably picked him up by Floo. Dean hadn't packed yet. Colin and Seamus were ready to go, but hadn't come by to grab their trunks.

Sherlock flicked his wand from his holster and wordlessly tapped both of their trunks after John had reclosed his. As soon as they shrunk, they were already being tucked away into John's pockets. Then they stood looking at each other. Sherlock suddenly payed a bit more attention. Maybe _now_ the mirror's prediction would come true? Then he realized that John looked nervous. Was he nervous about…oh, wait.

"I'll behave John, _honestly_ " Sherlock scoffed. After all these years, John still expected Sherlock to go around blowing things up and trampling on people's nerves. Well, he _did_ , but that was beside the point. And he didn't do that everywhere, Sherlock liked to think he'd been a model goldfish the last few months here at Hogwarts.

John smiled tenderly at him, and Sherlock found himself feeling oddly proud that he was the only one John smiled at like that, and had been ever since _You-Know-Who_ ….

The blonde _You-Know-Who_ , not the wizard.

Sherlock wondered if it was a bit not good that he preferred to meet with the wizard over the blonde. John stepped forward and Sherlock's eyes widened. But then John was just hugging him. Which was _nice_ but still. Sherlock rolled his eyes and patted John's back, wondering what on earth could be going through John's head.

"I'm not worried about you," John told him. "It's just, I was so _horrible_ to my family. They were poor, and made poorer in their attempts to heal me of my limp and depression. I was so bitter _all the time_ and-and…they just put up with it." Sherlock stopped patting John's back and hugged him fiercely.

"And now you're afraid they'll see you perfectly healed and resent all the money they spent on you?"

"Or that they'll resent you"

Sherlock thought about this for a moment. "What if I'd been caught in an explosion and lost most of my memories and my ability to deduce? I'd be pretty much useless, wouldn't I?"

"No!" John protested but Sherlock ignored him.

"I would be, though. I mean, I'd still have my personality. I'd be horrible to you, forcing you to always clean up after me, might still experiment, definitely would still be bored. I'd still yell at you and make people angry. But I'm confident you wouldn't leave me. In fact, I'd bet you'd stick even closer." John was looking confused at Sherlock's analogy.

"Now, I also know you would be trying to heal me. You'd probably even employ Mycroft's help. But nothing would work. Then, out of nowhere I meet someone I hadn't seen since Uni. All of a sudden, my memory comes back and I'm the same as always. Tell me, John, would you resent that person? Or would you be angry with me? Or would you blame yourself for 'not being enough' or some such rot, to trigger my memory yourself?"

John said nothing, but as this was Sherlock he didn't need to. He felt the uneasiness fading like the tension in the shoulders. Sherlock gently pushed John away, though still holding on to one of his friend's sleeves. "Let's go," he said just as the door opened to reveal the twins prancing around with wreaths of holly and snowy leaves about their necks.

"You ready Ronnikins?" asked Fred.

"All packed?" asked George.

"Dad wrote Perce"

"We're going Christmas shopping tomorrow"

"We've decided to get Perce an exploding inkwell"

"And a Tickling Quill to match"

"You know how he loves to get school supplies"

"I'm sure he'll appreciate our thoughtfulness-"

Then the twins stopped when they saw John's flushed face, and shared a look. "You alright?" Fred asked.

"Course he's not, look at him!" said George. "Who was it, Ronron?" he asked "That Malfoy kid? Goyle? Dean? Whoever it was, I'll kill him!"

"What're you going on about?" demanded his twin as Ron was about to say something.

"Obviously someone hurt him!"

"How can you tell?"

"He was crying! Look at his little face! He hasn't cried since he met his boyfriend."

"I'm okay," John told his brothers with a weak smile. Sherlock felt a thrill of triumph when John didn't deny what his brother said. "I'm just…" John struggled to find something to say.

"You know," Fred started, after a look of understanding had flitted across his face. "Mum's going to be overjoyed when she sees you."

"Yeah, and Bill and Charlie are coming home, too! Just wait till they see how much you're grown up!"

Sherlock felt appreciative towards the twins as John's smile became a little less forced.

****1047*****

The train ride back was uneventful. Sherlock and John had a cabin to themselves, but they didn't really do much. John sat reading for the majority of it, while Sherlock lay thinking about a million and one things with his head leaning against John's thigh. They silently listened to the rumble of the train as it clattered along the tracks. When the trolley lady came by, Sherlock had shoved several galleons at John and insisted he was hungry and that John should by a bit of everything.

Of course, Sherlock only nibbled on a few things, leaving most of the candy to John and Scabbers. By the time the train pulled up at the station, John had passed out, his head lolling to the side while Sherlock absently flicked through a book he'd snitched from Mycroft a week ago. At the squeal of the breaks, and the sound of steam being released Sherlock blinked slowly, then sat up looking out the window. The platform was lined with people waving at the train with wide smiles. Among them, easily to spot, were the Weasleys: A rather dumpy looking woman with a kind smile and threadbare dress, a man with a thinning spot at the very top of his head and a careworn but caring face, a handsome young man with medium length hair falling nearly to his shoulders and a single tiny braid going around one ear, a shorter stalky young man with hair buzzed short and the little girl Sherlock had seen earlier that year.

Sherlock quickly bustled around the cabin, putting Scabbers in his small cage and his (Mycroft's) book back in his trunk. He grabbed hold of Ian and Hedwig's cage in one hand, then turned to John, shaking him by the shoulder.

"We're here, John," he said. John sighed, coming into consciousness slowly. It was night already, and John had only fallen asleep about an hour ago, so his movements were slightly sluggish as he stood up and stretched. "I see your family," Sherlock looked out the window. John followed his gaze to where the twins had already bounded out to meet their parents, only to look back to the train with faces filled with alarm, probably realizing that John hadn't come off the train yet.

"Let's go, before Mum starts to worry," Ron said, slightly grumpy from having been woken up. He took hold of Sherlock without a thought and led the way off the train. They caught sight of Neville and Dean as they left, and they shouted out a "see you later" to each other as they passed.

"There you are!" came a relieved voice. Percy was at their shoulder's, a hand on Sherlock and a hand on his little brother. "Let's get going, Mum's got supper ready back at the Burrow. Don't know about you, but I'm starved."

"I fed him," Sherlock said, almost petulantly. Percy snorted in laughter, though he tried to cover it up quickly at the odd look Ron shot him. "I did" Sherlock insisted. Percy only nodded, taking Scabbers' cage from John and stepping out of the train, trying to help the younger boys hop out as well.

"RONNIE!" came a rather thunderous wail. Sherlock had only just enough time to get out of the way when Mrs. Weasley came barreling towards them, scooping Ron up into her arms. "Oh, my baby! Mwah mwah mwah! How was school?" She asked whilst showering his face with kisses. Sherlock and Percy both hid a grin, as did the rest of the Weasley men. "Your brothers' have been writing me all year, telling me how well you've been doing! My Ronnie, top of his class! I'm so proud of you! You look so well! Oh, I know going to Hogwarts would do you good!" Molly finally released John, who nearly stumbled, but Sherlock steadied him with a ready hand. He realized this was a mistake as soon as it happened. Molly zeroed in on him with an expression half like starved hunger and half like awe. And if Sherlock wanted to be mathematically incorrect, half like glee.

"Harry Potter!" she cried. "The boys said that you and Ronnie were boyfriends but I hadn't believed it until now! They told me you healed Ronnie's leg!"

"There was nothing wrong with John's leg in the—" Sherlock was cut off by Molly's arms as she did her best to smother him. Sherlock caught a glimpse of the Malfoy's out of the corner of his eye. Mycroft was watching him, looking like he wanted to step in and say something but not sure he should. "Don't just stand there, Mycroft, she's killing me!" Sherlock snarled at him, making his ex-brother chuckle and John's mother let go to look at who he was talking to.

Her eyes narrowed when she saw the Malfoys. As did the rest of the Weasley's except for John. The Malfoys all looked like they were sniffing a particularly dreadful fart someone ripped, except for Mycroft. Mycroft extended a hand to John. "I'll be seeing you at the Yule Ball?" he asked with such a miniscule display of hopefulness that, if John hadn't known Mycroft as well as he did, he might have missed it.

"Certainly! Sherlock's insistent on seeing a real pureblood gala, and somebody's got to make sure he doesn't murder someone." John said with a straight face, posture and poise befitting of a pureblood heir. The Malfoy's looked surprised.

"Indeed" Mycroft turned to Sherlock. "Behave yourself, brother." Lucius looked about ready to pass out at this. Sherlock saw what Mycroft was doing and decided to play along. He stuck a haughty nose in the air and scoffed.

"As if I ever act differently, brother." After a moment of silence, Mycroft warmly clasped Sherlock on the shoulder. "I'll see you at the Ball," Sherlock told him, face expressionless. Mycroft smiled gently, the walked away, his stunned parents behind him.

John turned to his parents. "I know you don't like the Malfoy's, but Mycroft is really nice. He helps me with my homework, and he offered to let me borrow his new broom next year if he doesn't make Seeker on his own team."

"I'd be shocked if they did," Sherlock muttered. "He looks like a skewered marshmallow when he flies." At which point, Arthur decided it was probably time to take the meeting back to the Burrow where they could talk over the meal Molly had made earlier that day. The twins entertained everybody by reenacting some of the school year's highlights (like when Lee Jordan transfigured Romilda Vane's hair piece into a spider, or when Professor Snape stepped in a puddle they "accidently" spilled that turned his shoes all pink and sparkly). Bill was talking with Percy about all the Goblin etiquette he had to learn for his new job at Gringotts. And Charlie was telling Ginny and John (and Sherlock who was pretending not to listen) about the baby dragon that had just hatched at the reserve he'd just started working at.

******1047********

The meal was delicious, even Sherlock who'd been raised (the first time around) on the finest food money could buy could admit that. The large table in the old house lovingly dubbed "The Burrow" was laden down with piles of buttered rolls and potatoes, yams smothered in syrupy brown sugar and marshmallows, green bean casserole sprinkled with fried onions, turkey stuffed with savory filling, pies dolloped with whipped cream and jugs of homemade eggnog. The smell in the kitchen/dining room was heavenly. The Weasley men barely waited until everyone sat down to take up their forks and dive into the feast face first.

Molly scolded them for their rudeness, reminding them that they had guests present, but she looked far too pleased with their reaction to her food to be taken very seriously. Sherlock grabbed a piece of turkey from John's plate with his fingers. Then he spooned a small mouthful of John's yams into his mouth, experimentally tasting the sweetness. Molly noticed out of the corner of her eyes, and paused in her conversation with Bill, John's oldest brother.

"Harry, dear, you can have your own plate." She told him, frowning.

"Yes, thank you Mrs. Weasley," Sherlock said as he stole one of John's green beans. "You're a very capable cook, by the way." John gave a little snort under his breath as he took a big bite of a roll he'd stuffed with mashed potatoes and turkey. Charlie raised an eyebrow when he saw that John was yet to let go of Sherlock's hand, from where they were clasped together under the table.

"It's okay, mum" Fred piped in.

"Yeah, Sherlock—and he hate's being called Harry, just so you know—steals off of Ronnie's plate all the time." George told her around a mouthful of food.

"Well s'not really stealing is it?" Fred asked his twin. "Ron just lets him."

"But why?" Molly asked loading up the plate in front of Sherlock with large globs of food. "Just use your own plate! You're scarcely eating anything!"

Sherlock frowned deeply, his hand twitching under the table. Something about Molly made him want to back away, out of the house, and take John with him. He examined her and her old, worn clothing. There was something strangely determined about her gaze. Sherlock looked about her house and then at her clothes. Molly's outfit seemed to be a bit better patched than that of her husband's and daughter. She had on a (tarnished) necklace and bracelet set and (cheap) earrings she'd polished recently. She wore (low quality) make-up smudging her lips and powdering her face, clumping her eyelashes together. Her hair was neatly done and pinned up with (plastic) pins. She was dressed to impress, but trying to be subtle. Monther-henning and practically shoving food down his throat, treating him like an esteemed visiting dignitary rather than an eleven-year-old school mate of her son's. Sherlock's eyes narrowed, as did John's as he realized Sherlock was deducing his mother.

Molly was gold-digging. She was trying to garner the favor of the Boy-Who-Lived to raise her family out of her social pit they were in. She'd grown up the standard pureblood life, though perhaps a level below the Malfoy's and Longbottoms, but then married badly (though she probably loved her husband and children genuinely) and now lived in poverty. She was trying to use "Harry" to regain her old social standing. Under normal circumstances, Sherlock would say all of this out loud, humiliating her, then have absolutely nothing to do with her for the rest of both of their lives.

However, this was John's mother. Sherlock gave an internal sigh. He didn't like Molly, and he wouldn't cater to her whim, but neither would he purposefully antagonize her. Sherlock mentally debated with himself over whether or not to tell John that his mother is a leech while his mouth replied "I'm not very hungry. I don't get hungry. That's why I don't make myself a plate, it just wastes the food because I assure you, I'm not going to eat that. I'm not going to eat half of that. Consider yourself lucky I ate at all."

John frowned at him, wondering what it was he saw that made him so angry (not that anyone but John could tell how angry he was). Molly frowned as well, but Sherlock only sat closer to John, holding his hand tighter. "That's all right, Sherlock," John said, ever ready to play defender. "I'll starving." And he grabbed the plate from his mother and added the food on it to his own.

"Why aren't you hungry, young man?" asked Arthur. "It was a long train ride, did you stuff yourself with goodies from the trolley then?" Sherlock shook his head, taking in Arthur's appearance. Clean, but wearing wrinkled clothing with a long-tern stain on the inside of his left elbow. The position of said stain suggests a desk job. He wore no tie, inside preferring a thick scarf, made poorly. Probably by Ginny, John's little sister. His watch is muggle, beat-up, said "World's Best Dad" alongside. Gift from one of his two older sons? Hair uncombed, but lying flat. Altogether, Arthur seemed a more genuine person than his wife.

Sherlock made himself smile, though it wasn't as forced as it could have been. "No, sir. I've just never had more of a stomach, I suppose. I don't like eating. It uses up energy digesting food that could be better utilized elsewhere. That, and it's boring."

"Eating isn't boring!" claimed Fred, looking scandalized.

"Eating is magical!" chimed in George, mimicking his brother's face. Ginny gave a giggle at her brothers' antics, then stole a peek at Sherlock, before her whole face flushing strawberry red and looking down at her lap. Oh, Joy, Sherlock thought.

"Tell us about yourself," Bill cut in, diplomatically changing the topic away from food, thinking that they were making Sherlock uncomfortable. "Heard from Dad you grew up Muggle. What's that like, then?"

"And how'd you meet Ronald?" Charlie asked.

"Growing up Muggle is much the same as growing up magic," Sherlock said, suppressing an eye roll. "Save for exchanging magic with technology. Instead of learning to ride a broom, we learn to ride bikes. Instead of potions, we learn to cook. Instead of reading Beetle the Bard, we read Brother's Grimm before bed. Otherwise there isn't much difference. And I met John on the train to Hogwarts. He tripped, I helped him up and that was that."

"Did you trip over your bad leg?" Charlie asked casually, sipping his drink. Molly scowled at him for his insensitivity over his little brother's disability. But John only nodded.

"Yeah, it was my bad leg. But then Sherlock told me there wasn't actually anything wrong with it, it was all in my head, and I just had to believe that there was nothing wrong with it and it'd fix itself. And he was right!" John gave a grin, pretending like he hadn't just lied to his entire family. Sherlock grinned to himself, proud of his goldfish.

"And to think all these years those Healers have been saying it's because your magical core settled in wrong," Arthur scoffed. "You know, I don't feel like I shouldn't tell you anymore, but they all said you'd end up being a squib."

"Arthur!" Molly shrieked.

"Your Mum wanted to spare you knowing," Arthur continued regardless, and Sherlock's opinion of him rose a notch. "But I just want you to know, that if you do lose your magic, we wouldn't love you any less." John smiled at them, and Sherlock knew that he was amused. "They all told us that your magical core was twisted the wrong way, like a rived trying to flow uphill or some such nonsense. That's how they explained you not using as much accidental magic. They didn't believe me when I told them you just weren't a passionate child."

"My magic's fine, Dad," John said, hiding his smug tone from everyone but his best friend. "Thanks to Sherlock, I'm third in my class, after him and our friend Gremione. Well, third in Gryffindor. I'm pretty sure Draco Malfoy is tied with Sherlock" here Sherlock gave a disgusted grimace at being tied with his ex-brother. "And I think there are a couple Ravenclaws who're between them and Gremione."

"That's still really good," Percy spoke up, finally looking up from the letter he'd been writing at the table. "I remember my first year, I was so nervous, I barely made the top twenty. I'm sure if you try hard enough, you'll make top ten, easy."

"I'll make sure he does," Sherlock said determinedly, swiping another piece of Turkey from John.

"You say you like being called Sherlock?" Bill asked him. "That's an odd name, where'd you hear it?"

Without pause, Sherlock replied "It's a word John made up. And I liked it. I always hated my name, so when John mentioned it on the train ride over, I decided right then that I'd change my name." Looks of understanding flitted across the faces of everyone present (Except John who was trying not to grin). "I was going by the name William until I met John. But William is awfully boring, too. But John made up the name Sherlock, so I don't share my name with anyone but him."

Percy cooed at them, them while Bill looked like he wanted to do the same. Charlie burst into laughter, telling Sherlock he had his approval (for what, Sherlock didn't really know), and the twins nudged each other with unreadable looks. Arthur and Molly looked amused, and Ginny…for some reason, John's little sister looked a tad angry.

****1047*****

Sherlock was to stay with John in his room. The twins had just stopped by to bid them good night and to not "to anything we wouldn't do!" Which prompted John to then slam the door in their faces. Now, they lay together on John's lumpy mattress, ignoring the spare one Arthur had dragged up for Sherlock laying on the floor.

"Your mother wants my money," Sherlock said by way of beginning conversation.

John winced. "I don't want to know how you know." He said sternly.

"Okay."

"I'm sorry. I didn't know that's why she agreed to let you come."

"It's fine. I wanted to come, I don't care why I was invited. Besides, what's mine is yours. If you want to buy something for your mother, it's completely in your right." John shook his head.

"I'm not going to use your—" Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "Our money on her. We get by fine. Better now than before since Bill and Charlie are earning their own keep, and they don't have to worry about my doctor's bills."

"From now on, I'm paying your tuition and school supplies. And robes. And I'm considering giving you an allowance."

"Gee…"

"How's ten galleons a week sound? Fair?"

"Sherlock, you're ridiculous."

"Fine, fifteen. But that's my final offer. There's no need to be so greedy, John."

John laughed aloud at his friend, who wore a pleased grin. "Fine, that's fair. I suppose I deserve it for putting up with you."

"Did you just insinuate that I'm essentially paying you to be my friend?"

"It's hazard pay."

"Fair enough" Conversation dissolved into giggles.

****1047*****

"…Now, Ronnie, I want you and Ha—Sherlock to stay with Percy. Fred, George, Here's your money and _stay out of Nocturn Alley._ Bill, keep an eye out for Percy and the little ones, will you? No, no need to follow them, just make sure you can see them at all times. Yes, Ginny, you can stay with Charlie…" Sherlock was barely listening to Mrs. Weasley as he held onto John's hand tightly, eyes wide as he observed the people around him.

 _Having an affair with boss's wife…feeling guilty_

 _Pregnant, doesn't realize it yet. Will secretly abort when she does._

 _In love with her best friend, doesn't realize it yet_

"Sherlock…"

 _Lower level ministry worker, dissatisfied with station, plotting minister's assassination. Will fail. Dismally._

 _On a diet…failing by the looks of that ice cream cone._

 _Hates children, babysits for a living_

 _Just stole a book to sell for money. Very poor, four children and a cat._

"…Time to go to Gringotts!" John was shouting in his ear. Sherlock turned to look at him. Half the Weasley's had already gone their separate ways. The ones remaining were looking at him with undisguised worry.

"Let's go then," Sherlock said impatiently, as if he'd been the one trying to get _John's_ attention for the past five minutes. John huffed and playfully shoved Sherlock's shoulder. Percy gave a little nod and began to lead the way. "Gringotts first, then let's go to the book store."

"Just a moment, dears," Molly interrupted quickly, before they could walk away. "Would you like me to come along with you? Those goblins can be awfully scary!" she said with fake concern on her face. John's eyebrows furrowed and he frowned at her, but Molly's full attention was on Sherlock.

"I like them" Sherlock said simply before turning around and leaving Molly behind. "Come John"

****1047****

By the end of the day, the Weasley's and Sherlock alike were laden down with packages that were hurriedly squirreled away in their rooms while Molly fixed a quick dinner from yesterday's leftovers. John and Sherlock had bought a present each for pretty much every first year, all of John's family, all of the teachers (though they'd only bothered grabbing a ugly pair of socks for Dumbledore, not wanting to waste much money on him), and their older acquaintances like Oliver Wood and Cedric Diggory. Though, most of the presents for the first years they didn't really know were just little bags of assorted candy.

"Do you think they'll like them?" John asked as he used his wand to wrap up his half of the gifts. " _Pulchra ligabis_ " he muttered the spell Sherlock had taught him moments ago (though why Sherlock knew a spell for wrapping gifts, John didn't know). He watched as the paper perfectly folded itself around the box he was aiming at, and tape and ribbon fly into their proper places.

"What does it matter?" Sherlock asked as he wrapped eight at once. "Giving presents like this is purely a political thing, and the Slytherins will even recognize it as such. I'm rich, and I'm trying to give off the feeling like I enjoy most people's company in order to rise in this world's social class so that by the time I'm an adult so many people will hold me in such great esteem that they'll look the other way whenever I preform magic in front of Muggles."

John sighed at his friend's explanation, but nevertheless glad that Sherlock was telling him at all. "Why didn't _you_ go into Slytherin?"

"Because I wanted to go into Gryffindor with you" John let the present he was working on fall to the bed so that he could tackle his friend in a hug.

"Such sentiment," John teased.

"Shut up" mutter Sherlock as he tried to shove John away. "Anyway, it's fairly obvious that, even though it's high quality candy, we didn't put much thought into it."

"Except for the _Dieting for Obese Beginners_ how-to book you're giving Mycroft," John laughed as that particular present caught his eye. It was actually a lockable warded box that was made to look like a book (Sherlock designed the cover himself, he had a great deal of fun with it, too). It had a rather complex expansion charm on it, so there was no limit to the amount of things he could put in it. There were also charms on it that kept it at the exact weight a book of its size should be, and to keep whatever was in it fresh and neat. Sherlock had filled it with celery sticks.

"I just wish I could see he face when he opens it," Sherlock said, looking pleased as he wrapped the platinum cauldron and potion's set he'd bought for Snape, and the cat-shaped flowering plant he'd bought McGonagall. "I wonder what he got me" he mused as he added the two rather large parcels to the growing pile in the corner.

****1047****

 **I was going to add in a confrontation with Molly Hooper, but I've decided to put it off for one of the later books. I just couldn't find a way to fit it in smoothly. But don't worry, we'll be seeing her eventually xD**


	11. Aeldin

**: I'm sorry, my update schedule is like, uber random. But I'm glad you like my story! You could always favorite it, you know, then you'd get an alert when I update it ;)**

 **Guest: OMG YOU ARE SO CLOSE! No, Collin is** ** _not_** **a reincarnation of Mary, because Mary is not dead. There's another hint for you!**

 **Thank you so much for your reviews and support. And, for those of you in America, Happy Thanksgiving. I'm so thankful for all of you lovely reviewers! I hope you all have a wonderful week!**

***1047****

Mr. Malfoy eyed his son curiously as they walked towards the apparition point in Kings Cross. "I hope you realize that you've befriended a blood traitor, Draco. I confess myself, disappointed. I'd thought you more rational than that." Draco was silent for a moment before answering as Narcissa glared at her husband above their son's head. They'd never agreed on raising Draco to be a "blood purist". Narcissa thought it a much more Slytherin technique to befriend all, then exploit them. Much more profitable as well.

"I know how you feel about Arthur Weasley, Father, however Ronald Weasley I find to be a fine wizard. He holds to old wizarding customs like none of the rest of his family does. Furthermore, he's nearly on par with me in class. He's very powerful, and is already showing a great hold of influence over the rest of our year. Aside from that, he's a connection to Harry Potter, who would clearly be a great asset to our family. And on top of it all, I find the both of them to be great company. Potter holds the same attitude towards muggles that I do. And Ronald doesn't think much better of them. Potter calls them 'goldfish'. Apparently, the muggles Dumbledore is forcing him to live with don't treat him very well. I was shocked when I found out, but Ronald told me in private that you can see his ribs through his skin. They've been starving him, father. The filthy muggles have been starving him!" Draco didn't have to fake the anger he felt. Normally, he held all stupid people—be they muggle or wizard—with the same distain. But the muggles that harmed his beloved baby brother held a special place in Mycroft's ire.

Narcissa seemed to be nearly as appalled. "The poor dear. No wonder he was so looking forward to the Longbottom Yule Ball. He's probably never been to anything like it."

"They don't even celebrate his birthday," Draco said looking forlorn. "They hate him, just because he's a wizard. I never doubted that muggles were beneath us, but I had no idea they still hated us so much until I met Potter." Narcissa patted her son on the shoulder.

"I hate to say it," said Narcissa after they'd apparated into their home and their house elves had collected their traveling robes and Draco's things. "But I'm glad that poor little boy is staying with the Weasley's over break. We'll have to see if he can stay over here come the summer holidays. I can't in good conscience allow a wizarding child to stay with muggles. Especially ones who treat him so poorly."

"Neville said that his Gran wanted the same," said Draco. Lucius frowned at his son.

"Why have you gone about befriending all the Gryffindor children. Surely there are proper wizarding children in Slytherin."

"Crabbe and Goyle are useless," Draco sniffed. "But Blaise is my best friend. And Theo isn't too bad either. But he's always got his nose buried in his books. I suppose Daphne is okay, but she's so prissy she never does anything because she's afraid it'll muss up her hair. There's a half-blood in Gryffindor, Granger—you know, like the potion master—she's rather good at Quidditch. For a girl. Ronald's amazing though, you should see him fly!"

"I'm just glad you're making friends," said Narcissa, giving her husband a warning glare. Lucius rolled his eyes at her. "Now, run along. We'll have dinner in a moment, better go wash up." Obediently, Draco left the room, leaving the two elder Malfoy's alone.

"I don't like how he's fraternizing with the enemy!" Lucius said under his breath. "It's out of concern for him, Cissa! Not out of malice on my part, no matter _how_ much I despise the Weasleys! The mark has been reacting every time I visit Hogwarts. And just the other day it darkened for the barest moment. The Dark Lord is returning! What happens to Draco then? When his friends are all on the Light side?"

"From the sound of it, Lucius," replied his wife, as calmly as ever. "I'd say our son has a good chance of recruiting them. They obviously don't think highly of muggles, because of their treatment of Harry Potter. And from Draco's letters, I'd say they don't think very highly of Dumbledore either. After all, they somehow know it was the old fool who left Potter there. Besides, they're only children. Let them be children while they are, and let them be soldiers once they are done."

****1047****

John admired his reflection in the mirror. Sherlock had bought him new robes while they were out Christmas shopping, just for the Yule Ball. They were a soft cream color, that made him look (according to his mother) angelic. Only John and Sherlock knew that it was the same color as his favorite jumper he'd left behind in his old life. It was very soft to touch and felt very light but warm. The embroidery was fancy and formed stylistic runes in golden thread. Percy had smiled when he'd seen them, and told John he was fairly certain they meant warmth and protection.

Sherlock came out of the bathroom, and John couldn't repress a smile of his own. Sherlock wore a black cloak that flared out dramatically whenever he took a step. His outer robes were black and well fitted, and his shirt was a fetching plum color. John walked up to him and straightened the silver chain that fastened his cloak.

"Ready?" asked a voice from the door. Arthur Weasley stood watching them fondly. John smiled at him and said that they were. "Good! Your friend just Floo Called. Wanted to make sure you were still coming! It's a pity that your mum doesn't want to go. Between you and me, I think she's embarrassed at the state of her dress robes," Arthur rolled his eyes. "Honestly, that woman. But, still. You boys have a fun time tonight, you hear! And just had Percy take you home if you get tired, alright Ronnie?"

Before John could answer, Sherlock spoke up. "Don't worry Mr. Weasley. I'll take care of him." Arthur chuckled a bit as he walked away. John just sighed as he took his friend's hand, the picked up both of their overnight bags. "Let's get going. We don't want to be late." The twins were already walking passed their room, engaged in lively conversation as John and Sherlock followed them down. The twin's dress robes were slightly worn, though of previously good quality.

"I'm telling you, if you don't ask him you'll never know! Honestly George, where's that old Gryffindor Courage?"

"I left it in the Gryffindor showers with my innocence."

"Just ask him to dance!"

"I don't know if he's gay!"  
"Have you _seen_ his collection of porn? Of COURSE HE'S GAY!"

"But is he gay for me is the question!"

"How could he not be? You're the spitting image of me."

"Who?" asked John.

"Lee Jordan, obviously," answered Sherlock.

Both twins froze. Fred looked amused while George looked mortified. "One day," said the blushing twin. "I will prove you are using illegal Legilimency. And when I do, you'll be very sorry."

"If it helps any," offered Sherlock. "He's taken to staring at your arse lately."

"Really?" George visibly perked up before twisting his neck trying to look at his own arse, as if trying to figure out what Lee found so enchanting. Fred was doing the same.

"Are you boys ready to—what are you two doing?" asked Percy as he stood at the bottom of the stairs looking up. "You know what? I don't want to know. Just hurry up, I want to get there early. Penelope wanted to talk beforehand."

"Talk with words or" Fred made a lewd gesture with his hands which had Percy gasping, his cheeks turning just as red as George's. "Why you!" Percy cried, throwing the nearest item (a knitting needle) at the more talkative twin. Fred only laughed as he led the way to the fireplace.

****1047*****

John wasn't pouting, certainly not. Sherlock could dance with whoever he wanted to, John thought as he watched his best friend waltz with Greg as the the girl laughed about something Sherlock was saying. Before Greg it had been some Ravenclaw girl named Cho. And before that the hot Hufflepuff prefect Diggory. And before that…well, you get the picture. On the bright side, George was snogging Lee in the corner, apparently haven found the guts to ask him to dance ten minutes into the party. Percy and his girlfriend were nowhere to be seen. Neville was the life of the party, chatting with various people, going from group to group playing host.

Even the adults who had come were, apparently, having a good time. The purebloods had congregated near the food, and were talking or dancing with each other. The rest of the adults were mingling with the kids, or trying to figure out the wizarding waltz, which was slightly different from the muggle one.

"Enjoying yourself?" drawled a voice. John turned to see Mycroft. "It's a pity you don't like to dance, it's a passion of Sherlock's. Always has been." John's eyebrows raised. He honestly hadn't known that. John was about to ask Mycroft why he thought he didn't like to dance, when he realized that Mycroft was looking at Greg and Sherlock just as sourly as John had been. Mycroft read the question off of John's face.

"At your wedding, you danced only with great reluctance. If I noticed, so did Sherlock."

"You weren't even there."

"Exactly" John rolled his eyes.

"It's not that I don't like dancing, it's just that Mary was horrible at it. She always trod on my feet. Though, thankfully, she didn't at the actually wedding reception."

Mycroft smirked. "Well, in that case," before John could stop him, he quickly made his way over to his brother and interrupted their dance. Mycrofts' "John wants a dance" was clearly heard across the ballroom. John's face flushed red. Sherlock dropped Greg's hands and after a few whispered words, he slowly came up to John.

"You don't like dancing," Sherlock said suspiciously.

"I don't like dancing with people who can't dance," John corrected him.

*****1047*****

The Hogwarts Professors had come, out of obligation obviously, to observe the party. Severus had disappeared early on, Minerva assumed he'd just gone back to the school. Pomona was dancing with Amos Diggory, and Sinestra was engaged in a 'friendly debate" with Sybil over stars and prophetic symbols. The occasional "ABSOLUTE RUBBISH" was heard screeched more than once from both parties.

Minerva only smiled and sipped egg nog as she watched her two favorite lion cubs dance together. The professors had a betting pool set up, on how long it would take for the two of them to "make it official". As of right now, they only called each other their best friend. Minerva had bet that they'd start 'going steady' in third year. Severus had bet fifth. Quirenus had bet that it'd be second year. Hagrid, bless his soul, had thought they already _were_ boyfriends. Dumbledore had bet fourth.

"I'm so proud of Neville" Augusta interrupted Minerva's thoughts. Minerva smiled at her old friend. "He planned this whole thing you know." She nodded over at her grandson, who was talking to Harry and Ron, who had paused in dancing for the moment. Neville could be heard telling them "I'm not your House Elf" before going and getting drinks for all of them. "I was so afraid, sending him to Hogwarts, but he's really doing very well, I think."

"Oh, he's doing splendid," said Minerva, not mentioning that Neville hadn't been using his father's wand that Augusta had given Neville, but rather a new maidenhair wood wand with a phoenix feather core. "Not as well as Harry Potter, but close in some subjects."

Augusta puffed up with pride. "Just like his father. Frank mightn't have been the best, but he always tried his hardest." Minerva smiled, remembering. "Neville does him proud."

"That he does"

****1047****

Near the end of the party found the Gryffindor first years gathered in Neville's room, having procured permission from their various guardians (minus the Dursley's but who cares about them?) to stay the night. Blankets were rolled out on the floor and pillows were tossed around. Sherlock was using his, now famous, illusion magic to introduce his friends(?) to muggle fairytales. Unfortunately, or perhaps not, Sherlock had deleted most of the details of the various stories.

"...And then Cinderella's stepmother turned the pumpkin carriage into an oven, planning to devour the unsuspecting scullery maid. But, because of a deal Cinderella had made previously with a sea witch, she threw down a handful of beans which spontaneously sprouted into giant beanstalks, effectively breaking the oven. But her very long hair got tangled up in the branches, and so as the stalk grew, Cinderella went up into the sky with it. It grew so tall that it surpassed the clouds, and there up on the clouds was a very ugly duckling who wanted to play the trumpet, and so he and and Cinderella left together to find the Little Mermaid so that she would turn the ugly duckling into a real boy, and send Cinderella back to Kansas."

The pureblood children were listening and watching with wide eyes, while the children familiar with the tales were laughing too hard to correct him. Nearing midnight, a House Elf appeared before them with a tray of milk and cookies. "Lady Longbottom bes saying that the children must be eating their snack then go to sleep" squeaked the little thing, setting down the tray.

"Alright," said Neville amidst the disappointed sighs of his friends. "Thanks Twinky," the elf bowed the vanished with a _crack_. "And Sherlock was just getting to the good part, too. Does Cinderella ever find her Prince?"

"Eventually," replied Sherlock certainly. "After the prince is turned into a frog and gets his eyes clawed out by a beaver."

"A beaver?" asked John, confused.

"A beaver," nodded Sherlock. "But don't worry, Cinderella discovers she has magical tears, like a phoenix. So his eyes eventually grow back." Greg gave a little snort. "Neville," Sherlock called to the other boy, who was standing near the tray "I don't like cookies, get me an apple."

Neville sighed. "I'm not your House Elf," but he soon summoned an actual House Elf to get his friend a piece of fruit.

Seamus pulled a bottle of Butterbeer out of his pack. "I brought this, we could have it with our snack." Dean cheered as he lunged for it. "You know, Sherlock, I was wondering something. And I figured you could help me figure it out."  
"What is it?"

"Why's it that Wizards can't do magic without their wands when they're thinking about it, but they can just do it when they're not. You know, like accidental magic."

"It's like the limp that my John used to have," Sherlock said. "It's because they've handicapped themselves, thinking that they _have_ to use a wand. But a wand is just a bit like training wheels on a muggle bike. It gives you better control, but you'll never be able to do some of the more fun things with them on. The wand helps draw the magic out of you, but it's not as strong as pure magic straight from your core."

"Can _you_ use wandless magic?" Greg asked Sherlock.

In response, Sherlock raised his hand, and his pillow went shooting across the room. "Neville, hand me my pillow."

"I'm not your House Elf" Neville said as he got up.

"I've been practicing doing my illusions, but detail is a bit harder, because without the wand blocking the excess magic, there's just too much of it. It's like trying to replicate the Mona Lisa with a broom as your paint brush."

"Replicate the what?" Lavender asked.

****1047****

Sherlock was having trouble falling asleep. He lay on the floor, like everyone else. Despite Longbottom Manor having many, many rooms, the children had all decided they wanted to stay together, and so they were sharing Neville's. And since Neville would feel bad if he were the only one using a bed, everyone was sleeping bundled up in nests of blankets and pillows on the floor. John had rolled on top of him, laying perpendicular across Sherlock's torso. It had been funny at first, and Dean, who was the only other one still awake, had giggled sleepily. But now it was rather uncomfortable, and Sherlock had a hard time sleeping at the best of times.

Sherlock sighed through his nose, escaping into his mind palace. He walked down the familiar hallways, until he reached the peeling door. He opened it, and was surprised to see what looked like a four-year-old boy sitting in the corner, wrapped in the blanket that Sherlock had conjured the last time he was in here. The only thing that gave away the fact that it wasn't human (besides that it was living in Sherlock's head) was the fact that it was still made out of the same black smoke.

"Who are you?" despite how young the voice sounded, it was undoubtedly intelligent. "Where am I?"

"My name is Sherlock…Potter," Sherlock said. "You're in my head."

"How?"  
"I was hoping you could tell me"

The thing was quite. Sherlock manipulated the flow of his magic, and let it fill the room as he scooted closer to the boy and sat down next to it. "What's your name?" The thing was quite for a while, not saying anything, just reveling in the feeling of Sherlock's magic.

"I have none that I wish to use," the boy said after a moment.

"I understand the feeling. I was born in this life under the name Harry James Potter. All three of those names are entirely unacceptable. So I go by Sherlock." The small being smiled at this.

"I understand." Said the small boy.

"Still," said Sherlock. "It will be too boring to just call you "boy". What about Chernabog?"

"The bat god? No."

"Johan"

"No"

"Luther"

"No"

"Oliver?"

"Too common"

"An uncommon name, then? Aeldin. Relating to the Alder or Elder tree."

"Perhaps." Sherlock snorted. Aeldin it was then.

"Who are you?"

"I already said."

"No, you only said you had no name you wished to use. You haven't told me who you are. Were you once a man? Did you die? Or are you a part of me?"

"What do you think?"

"I think it's unlikely that you are a part of me, otherwise you wouldn't be feeding off of my magic this way. You are a parasite, whether or not you mean me harm. You must have come from somewhere else." The being, Aeldin, laughed.

"And what do you make of that, little detective?"

"You are Voldemort, aren't you?" The being didn't answer. "I don't hate you for killing Lily and James. Mad at you, slightly. But I didn't really know them, and they were soldier in a war. They knew they would possibly die. So long as you never harm my John, nor my brother or any of our mutual friends, I will never have a reason to raise my wand to you. In fact, with my own magic as my witness, I promise that I won't so long as you never harm one of them."

"How will I know them?" asked Aeldin, eventually. Sherlock concentrated, calling forth memories of John, the various children at Hogwarts he was fond of, and Draco. "That boy looks like a Malfoy."

"He is, but as annoying as he is, he is also my brother."

"How?"

"A secret for now."

"You won't be able to keep it from me for very long," said Aeldin. "I'm in your head."

"You're unable to leave this room for now, but I have a feeling you'll soon be reunited with another portion of yourself."

"What do you mean, boy?"

"I mean, I don't know what happened, but maybe when you died your soul shattered and instead of moving on, you're stuck here in this one life until all the piece are united. And while one piece is stuck in my head, another piece is stuck in the head of my DADA teacher."

*****1047*****  
 **I'm sorry this is a little bit shorter than normal. I don't have much time today. I promise the next chapter will be a lot longer though! REVIEW!**


	12. Christmas with the In-Laws

**YAY! Yes, most of you found Mrs. H. Right now, the fact that she** ** _is_** **Mrs. H doesn't have much to do with the plot, as she doesn't actually actively remember. However, somewhere…deep inside…Neville is really confused as to why he wants to mother the two boys. But no one is even coming close as to who Collin is!**

 **Oh, I'm just squealing inside. I can't wait until the chapter that reveals it. XD**

 **Also, Moriarty WILL be in this story…just remember that I am going with a specific timeline, and Jim was still alive at the time of John and Sherlock's death, so he couldn't actually be Voldemort, as fun as that would be…maybe in another fic ;)**

 **Cartlin: Hi! I just wanted to clarify that John and Sherlock did** ** _not_** **die at the pool. They died during a different case (that I totally made up). I'm sorry that that wasn't clear. It was similar to the other case, but not quite. Btw, I'm actually really glad you brought up that point. I'm sorry you're dissatisfied with it, but that very detail will play a very major role later on in shaping Sherlock's character. The fact that Sherlock was so hung up on losing John that he didn't form any attachment to anyone from his new life was me painting a flaw on Sherlock's character. I hope you continue to read my story anyway. I appreciated your review!**

 **Thank you all so much for your continued support, and I'm sorry about the infrequent updates, it's reaching the end of the semester, so my professors are really piling on the homework :/**

 **May the gods be ever in your favor!**

Severus Snape had no idea how it happened, but somehow he ended up coming to Longbottom Manor to help Minerva and Augusta "entertain" the brats that had stayed over, and a few select children who had returned to the luxurious manor that morning. His godson was sitting by the fire place playing a strange combination of Gobstones and a Muggle card came called "Pokeyman" with Granger, Weasley and Potter. Weasley and Potter were, as ever, practically sitting on top of each other while simultaneously trying to play the game and Granger was thoroughly sweeping the floor with her competition.

Longbottom kept playing House Elf, despite his weak protests that he was nothing of the sort, fetching things for people or ordering snacks. Currently he was trying to get Sherlock to eat something more than just the half piece of toast he'd had for breakfast. The two Gryffindors, Thomas and Finnigan, where working on their "explosive transifuguration", practicing on Christmas ornaments, which they'd then toss into the air and watch explode in a way reminiscent of fireworks. Zabini and Nott were were in an argument with Boot and the Ravenclaw Patil over certain species of sprite and whether they could or could not kill a wizard. A small group of Hufflepuffs including Bones (and several other children whose names he couldn't be arsed to remember) were gossiping with Brown and Gryffindor Patil in the corner. Creevy, meanwhile, was bouncing around the room taking numerous pictures. Every now and then he'd pause and beam over at Potter and Weasley. Potter would give a smile back, though it seemed almost patronizing, and Weasley would sort of grimace in a mock smile. But Creevy didn't seemed to mind, or maybe he didn't notice.

Overall, all four houses were represented. Not only that, but nearly every First year (except for the few Pureblood Slytherins and Muggle born children whose parents wouldn't allow them to come) was present, and not a single one had a single trace of malice anywhere to be seen, and Severus was adept at spotting such things. All in all, it was a merry gathering. And it left Severus baffled.

As far as Severus knew, even before Lord Voldemort sullied the name of Slytherin, there had been contempt and dislike between the Houses. The Slytherins were untrustworthy and manipulative, the Gryffindors were bullies and/or loud and crass, the Hufflepuffs were weak and much like the forgotten Middle-child of Hogwarts, and the Ravenclaws were Know-it-Alls who fancied themselves more capable than the others. The Houses were divided from each other, and even within themselves. All the Houses stayed to themselves, and the years with in the Houses stayed just as isolated. Only in Slytherin House did the years interact on a large scale, and even then, that was just for political gain.

But it had only been a few months and Potter had flipped the whole system on its head and Hogwarts was better for it. He was a natural leader, though he pretended that he wasn't. The children flocked to him and followed his lead, and yet he never led them to do anything more questionable than staying up late to practice different theories about their schoolwork. He'd made friends with several people in varying years and Houses, and prompted others to follow his example. For the first time in Hogwarts History, Houses weren't sticking exclusively to their own tables or sides of the classrooms. It was less so in the older years, but third year and down had classrooms mottled with patterns of colors, rather than an obvious divide straight through the middle of the room.

Dumbledore was worried about Potter's strange influence over the entire school. Best Severus could guess from the bits and pieces he's been told; Dumbledore was comparing Potter to another child prodigy he once knew. One who had held sway over the entire school with his charm. One who had the professors wrapped around his little finger. One who murdered his own father, then went on to become the most powerful Dark Lord in a century.

But Severus had no such fears. Sherlock was a good boy(…Man?), who's entire world revolved around Weasley and blowing things up. They would only have to worry about Potter becoming a Dark Lord if "John" was either killed or suddenly converted to the "dark side". Furthermore, Severus had done his research on "Sherlock Holmes" and "John Watson". He was impressed. The man was obviously a genius, and while he could have used it for his own game, he instead became something akin to an Auror…who wasn't paid at all. And while part of Severus wondered if he shouldn't tell Dumbledore about the two lions, but then again, his Oath bound his loyalty to Potter, not Albus. Also, there was his promise to the Little Weasley he had to take into consideration.

Severus watched the two boys with conflicting feelings in his chest, the two most prominent being exasperated fondness, and a twinge of envy, as he watched Sherlock glare at his "brother" (how that started, Severus wasn't even sure he wanted to know), snarl something out then wrap both arms around "John" and pull the tiny Weasley boy into his lap. John was only pretending to mind.

Severus would keep an eye on them, and his door would always be open to them…but…no, he wouldn't betray them to Albus.

****1047****

"…shows that you're less competent then my John, if you truly believe that Gnomes are harmless. I watched them swarm a deer and devour it like a bunch of Piranhas…" Mr. Weasley was listening to "Sherlock" scold the twins for teasing John for his slight fear of Gnomes. The two boys were truly adorable, especially with how they both carried themselves around like they fancied themselves already all grown up. But then most little boys their age thought themselves "big people" now that they were already in Hogwarts. Arthur sighed, content with how things had turned out.

Arthur Weasley had always been of the mind that everything will turn out how it's meant to be, and that there's no point worrying or being stressed over what is out of your control. However, that belief was put to the test with the birth of his smallest son, Ronald. He loves Ronald, he honestly does, with all of his everything so much that it aches. Same as with all his children. When the little boy was born, Arthur knew immediately that the sweet little bundle would have him wrapped around that tiny, wrinkled finger. Molly, exhausted as she was, comment in weary surprise about his hair, but Arthur thought his youngest son was the most gorgeous thing in the world (same as with the rest of his newborns). His eyes were the clearest shade of blue, and his hair was bright gold. He was smaller than his brothers, and his cheeks were strangely clear of when trademark Weasley freckles. Some of Arthur's buddies at work had offered to test Ronald, to make sure he was actually Arthur's. But Arthur had always refused them. He knew Ronald was his (though Molly actually had done after one of her friends had managed to somehow get it into her head that someone had raped and then Obliviated her. So Arthur was double sure that the little blonde tyke was truly his own).

At first, Ron was just like any other baby. But then, one night he started to cry. Arthur was woken up moments after his wife who was already on her way out of the room. It wasn't the normal crying that baby's used when they were hungry, or wet, or lonely. It was a strange cry Arthur had never heard before, and it shook him. For a terrifying moment, he'd thought someone had broken in and was in his baby's room. He grabbed his wand, his Gryffindor spirit making him practically fly down the stairs, bursting into Ron's room.

Though Molly was the only one there, holding Ron tightly, hushing him, whispering into his little ear. Arthur quickly strode over and kissed his son's tiny head. "What's the matter, sport? Daddy's here." But his son didn't stop crying like he usually did when Arthur spoke to him. Ron didn't smile at his parents, he just kept sobbing that heart breaking sound, fisting his little hands over his chest. Arthur, irrationally afraid that Ron would hurt his little hands like that, he taken the baby's hands in his own, kissing the tiny fingers while Molly was cooing and crooning to him. "I don't know what's wrong, Arthur," Molly said fretfully. "He's not wet, and I fed him right before bed…"

"Maybe he had a bad dream?" asked a little voice from behind them. Ten-year-old Billy was rubbing his eyes. "Percy cried like that when he had a bad dream. 'Member?" Arthur smiled at their oldest.

"Billy, you should be in bed," Arthur gently chided the boy.

"Ronnie woke up Charlie, and Charlie woke up me." Molly sighed and passed a still crying Ron to Arthur, saying she'd tuck them back in. Billy followed his mum, despite his weak protests that he was too old for good-night kisses. Arthur was left alone with Ron, who was yet to stop crying.

Arthur sat down cross legged on the floor next to the old crib that had once held all of Ron's brothers, Arthur himself, Arthur's father, and all the Weasleys back many generations. He leaned his back against the sturdy wood and rocked side to side, holding his precious burden. "Hey, hey" Arthur whispered. "What's wrong, Ron? I'm right here. It'll be okay. I've got you."

It took many hours for Ron to fall back asleep. And the next morning his was oddly quiet. Though he was prone to fits of the same sort of crying. Ron never tried to look around like other babies. He never tried to pull himself across the floor, or reach up and grab things. In fact, it took a very long time for him to take his first steps. He was already speaking somewhat by that point. Arthur remembered his littlest son's first steps. Little Ron had stood up almost like he wasn't even thinking about it, and slowly walked unsteadily to his father. Arthur, of course, noticed the limp right away, but had dismissed it at first as the typical unsteady gait of a child walking for the first time. He was simply relived Ron was finally walking. He scooped his baby boy up and twirled him around the garden, laughing like a maniac.

It was the first time Arthur can remember Ron laughing at all. He kissed the tiny face over and over again, telling Ron how proud he was of him. Then he ran, calling for his wife, cradling the blonde Weasley to his chest.

But then the limp never went away. Healers had speculated that an enemy of the family had broken in, meaning to kill Arthur and Molly, but ended up in the wrong room. When the baby started crying, the intruder might have been scared off, but had cursed the baby just before fleeing. Arthur was miserable. It made sense, in a way. Why Ron was so odd, so quiet, so still. Why he never had any magic. Molly was beside herself. Arthur blamed himself, he hadn't updated the wards on the house that year. There just wasn't the money.

When he got home, he'd thought Molly had taken all the children out to the park. Arthur went out to the back yard and started flinging spells and hexes, screaming in anger. Someone had hurt his baby, and Arthur hadn't been able to protect him.

"Daddy?" Arthur froze mid Bombarda. He turned in horror to see his precious boy sitting on the steps of the porch, clutching a stuffed owl that Billy had brought home from Hogsmeade for him. Arthur just stood there, panting, looking at his fragile little one. His precious Ronnie. He could have hit Ron…Arthur shuddered and hung his head, pulling at his already receding hair-line with trembling hands. Ron might be cursed to be a squib and it was Arthur's fault. "Was I bad?" asked the little voice of his four-year-old, cautiously.

"Oh, Ronnie," Arthur sobbed. "No…no never. My good boy…" He scooped up Ron and held him as tightly as he dared. The little boy held on as well, though undoubtedly confused. Ron was just a baby, Arthur suddenly realized with a breaking heart, he probably had no idea there was anything wrong with him. Then Arthur mentally recoiled in disgust at his own thought as he held Ron more loosely and looked down at him with love in his eyes. No, there wasn't anything wrong with Ronnie. Nothing. Who cares if he's a squib. Arthur would never disown Ron. Ron was his boy, and Arthur had little enough as it was; he wasn't about to let go of one of his very few treasures. He combed through Ron's strangely blond hair with tender fingers.

After that day, Arthur started taking more shifts. He worked odd jobs in the ministry on top of it, fixing things here and there. He sometimes bought muggle things and sold them to his friends (after playing with them a bit) to make a little extra money. Molly began to babysit the Lovegood girl more often, as well as the Diggory boy. Billy—Bill—loved his brothers more than anything. And so, when he graduated, he tried sending half his paycheck to his parents every month. When his parents refused, he compromised by buying his siblings "presents" of clothing and their favorite food.

Ron grew, but he stayed much the same; quiet, distant, sad. Arthur loved him all the more. He was busy a lot, because of trying to make ends meet (Though he never blamed his Ronnie for it), so he didn't get a lot of time to spend with his sons and daughter. But when he did, he always made sure he got a chance to just hold onto his youngest son for even just a few moments, before being dragged into a game by one of the twins, or asked to help with homework by Percy. Arthur was ashamed to say, but he often enjoyed the times when Molly had taken Ginny to one of her friend's houses, and the older boys were at Hogwarts, when it was just him and Ron. Arthur never really knew how to talk to his baby boy, but it wasn't for lack of trying. The typical "look at that pretty bug" never caught Ron's interest like Charlie. And "Wow, would you look at that flower" didn't interest him like it did Percy. "Don't eat that, it's poisonous" didn't apply to Ron like it did the twins, because Ron never ventured to try anything like that. Ron mostly just sat and looked at the world. Whenever his father pointed something out, Ron would look and nod solemnly, maybe ask a question. But there seemed to be always something on his mind.

Arthur never forgot the day that Ron was diagnosed with severe chronic depression. His precious boy had looked up at him, shoulders slumping and had forced out "I'm sorry", as if it wasn't all Arthur's fault. Arthur threw himself into (ontop of his many jobs) finding out if there was a curse that caused extreme, permanent, depression. It would explain so much (not everything but a lot of it). Arthur soon grew depressed himself, as most of the rituals he found caused death within five to ten years.

His son was seven.

Hoping that he was wrong, Ron was taken to many different healers. But they always said the same thing. Arthur and Molly were even investigated at one point for abusing their children (though Albus, thank Merlin, had stepped in and helped them out of that corner).

For a while, Ron seemed to be getting better. He started wearing a smile more, and began to run about. But then Arthur realized that he was running about (still with a limp) almost desperately. And then he realized that his smiles seemed panicked. Like he was afraid. Ron began to get even sicklier. He grew pale and stopped being able to eat properly. Everything just came back up. It wasn't until summer came, and Percy came back from his second year and broke down into sobs when he learned what Ron was going through.

It seems that in an attempt to help his favorite brother, Percy had cast a (slightly overpowered and off center) Cheering Charm while Ron was asleep, thinking that it would cure his brother's depression. Ron had forgiven him right away, and Percy had spent the rest of the summer spoiling him rotten (more so than usual, anyway) but it made Arthur wary. The depression that Ron was going through was obvious incredibly abnormal if being exposed to a Cheering Charm for that extended a period of time did nothing to improve his state, and made it worse.

It also made him incredibly angry at the St. Mungo Healers, as they hadn't picked up the fact that he was under the influence of the charm. The twins probably helped the most, much to Percy's disappointment. Their's was a happy-go-lucky nature, and a great talent for pranking. And, when they weren't being purposefully cruel, their pranks were often very funny.

Percy was often the target of these pranks, as the twins were yet to forgive him for that long school year that they watched their brother waste away, thoroughly convinced that Ron was dying (which he, in fact, had been). Percy felt so guilty he never complained. Little Ginny soon learned that her bigger brothers were helping her "little brother" (Ginny still called him that) get better, and so convinced the twins to prank her as well, to make Ron smile.

Ron seemed to be getting a little better every year, and he even managed a bit of accidental magic at one point. The Weasley's threw a party. And when Ron's Hogwart's letter came, Arthur had excused himself and hidden in the garage while he sobbed out gasping tears of relief.

Overall, Ron had a rather dramatic childhood.

But then, the day that Ron left for Hogwarts, Molly and Arthur were bombarded with Hogwarts owls, and dread began to creep back in. There was one from the twins and one from Percy. Nothing unusual there. But then there was one from Madam Pomfrey, which made Arthur's insides cold. One from Minerva which had Molly fretting. And one from Dumbledore, which they opened first.

It had said an infuriatingly little amount, just congratulating them on another lion in the family, and asking them if they could maybe consider having young Harry Potter over for the winter hols, as the boy had become friends with Ronald.

Minerva's had been substantially longer, along with giving the results of Ron's sorting, had said that the boy had managed to make a rather strange friendship with Harry Potter, and that the two were already as inseparable as the twins and that Lee Jordan (The three had met on their first train ride, as well). But not only that, but that Ron seemed to be good friends already with Neville Longbottom, and a Muggleborn named Hermione Granger.

And Draco Malfoy and a few other Slytherins.

Arthur had no idea what to make of it, but his confusion only tripled when he read Percy's.

Ron's limp was gone.

Over the course of the first semester, owls were traded by the Weasley's pretty much every day. Molly wrote a long letter every night to each of the boy that would arrive in the morning, always sending little snacks. The twins wrote about twice a week, and Percy was almost as dedicated in the communication as Molly. Arthur himself wrote about every other week, and usually only to either Percy or the twins. He was too worried he'd say something wrong to Ron, and maybe make it sound like he didn't approve of Ron making friends (which he did, wholeheartedly…it's just…. _Malfoy?!_ )

But every letter that came in there was always, always, something about "Sherlock" Potter.

"Sherlock and Ronnie are sharing a bed…is that weird?"

"Ronnie feeds Sherlock by hand…it's pretty cute…"

"Sherlock's a bloody genius!"

"Sherlock's a prodigy with illusion magic"

"Sherlock's good at explaining things, he's really helping Ron a lot."

"Sherlock asked Ron to Neville's Yule ball!"

"They're always holding hands"

"It's like they're married"

Arthur even got one from Pomona Sprout at one point, which he was confused about at first, but then he read it and the entire thing was Sprout going on about how talented Harry Potter was at Herbology, like he was one of Arthur's sons and not just the friend of one of his sons.

And soon the other teachers followed suite, including one very strange letter from Binns which was addressed to "Andy Weasel". Severus even wrote, saying that Arthur should be proud: Ron and Sherlock were very adept at the craft.

It baffled Arthur. Even Dumbledore acted like Sherlock was one of his! He was honored, certainly, to supposedly be thought to have some claim to the Boy-Who-Lived, but he'd never met the child!

Then Arthur met Sherlock, and he was no longer confused. Percy was right, the two boys act more like they're married than he and Molly do! Arthur had thought Sherlock refusing to eat anything but what was on Ron's plate was adorable. And then he's melted inside when he learned that Sherlock had "changed" his name so that he could "share it" with "John".

Though Arthur still wasn't sure why Sherlock called Ron "John". Perhaps it was some kind of joke. But, apparently, Sherlock did it all the time, as did most of their classmates. Occasionally in letters, a professor would slip and call Ron "John". Even the older Weasley boys would sometimes slip.

Arthur had peeked in on the boys that first night, and had to hold in a giggle when he saw Ron and Sherlock curled around each other like puppies, completely ignoring the spare bed. Molly had said that night that she gave them until the end of the year to become "official". Silently, Arthur disagreed, wondering why his wife didn't think they were "official" already.

Arthur might never figure out what curse had ailed Ron all those years. But, despite what Sherlock said, he'd never not believe that Sherlock had cured his precious child. Because of that (and because in approximately seven years Sherlock would probably be his son-in-law) Sherlock would always be a Weasley in Arthur's book.

****1047****

It had been many years since Sherlock had had a "Happy Christmas". His relatives always locked him up in the cupboard, or kicked him out into the snow for the day. So, for the last eleven years, he'd hated when that time of year would roll around.

But ever since John, he couldn't hate the day itself. It brought back warm memories of John making cookies. Of him annoying Mycroft by sending him cake (Mycroft would retaliate by sending him things like stuffed animals…which Sherlock would never admit to keeping). Of Mrs. Hudson making homemade eggnog (…which Sherlock would never admit—to John—of spiking). Even of Greg getting drunk and belting out 'God Rest ye Merry Gentlemen' off key.

Whenever Christmas rolled around, Sherlock would spend the day in his mind palace, reliving his past Christmases. He'd study John's ugly sweaters, or the way he'd decorate the house. He'd watch Mrs. Hudson make the eggnog more carefully, imagining he was helping her in the kitchen. Good God, he'd even watched his memories of Mycroft showing up uninvited and imagined his big brother teasing him for having become so maudlin.

But then he woke up early, Christmas morning. The house smelled like Turkey and cookies, and eggnog and cider. And John. Sherlock felt like his mind couldn't decide whether he was happy, or if he wanted to break down. So he decided to do neither, instead shoving John off the bed.

"AHH!" John cried out as he flailed, waking up suddenly. He hit the floor with a thud, and lay there for a moment. Sherlock wriggled to the edge of the bed and looked down at his best friend. "Happy Christmas, John." John was silent for a moment. But then he leapt up and started beating Sherlock with a pillow.

The laughter and banging noises soon drew the twins into the room, and an all-out war of Fred and Sherlock against George and John erupted. Within five minutes, Bill and Charlie had joined the fray, but not really on anyone's team. The door was cautiously opened to reveal Percy. "Mum says it's time for breakfast," he said quickly before running out of the room, as though afraid he'd be pulled into the fight.

It took another fifteen minutes for everyone to calm down and untangle themselves, and actually walk down the stairs to the dining room, where Molly, Arthur, Ginny and Percy were already seated and helping themselves to food.

****1047****

That night, John grinned at the sight of Sherlock passed out in a green Weasley sweater. It had originally had a large "H" on the front, but the twins had soon added an "S" in front of it with red magical paint, which they promised would never wash out. John lay next to his best friend, lazily flipping through his favorite present he'd received that year: _The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes_ , by John Watson (compiled by Anthea Alfileria). Apparently, Mycroft's old secretary had retired her job soon after her boss' death, and become a children's author. One of the books she'd written was the one Sherlock had gifted him. Sherlock had sent a copy to everyone, but John's copy was special, in that it was leather bound and looked rather like a journal. John had given Greg a toy Auror's set, thinking it'd give his friend a laugh. And he'd send Mycroft various pictures of Sherlock (and other people in their group of friends so that his parents wouldn't think it was creepy) that he (and Colin—ugh) had collected throughout the year in a handmade photo album, figuring it'd be worth more to Mycroft than anything he could possibly buy. To Sherlock, he'd bought (using the money Sherlock had given him for "allowance", much to his chagrin) a set of wizarding folk songs and classical violin pieces. Mycroft had managed to buy (that is, hire a wizard to steal) Sherlock's old violin, which had miraculously survived the explosion, as he'd left it in Mrs. Hudson's flat at the time.

Sherlock had played carol after carol, despite the fact that the violin was just a bit too big for him. It sounded beautiful. Sherlock snored softly, next to him, his hands still curled around the neck of his violin and the frog of the bow. Smiling, John leaned in closely and gently pecked his friend's cheek, lingering for just a moment before sighing.

"Merry Christmas, Sherlock"

John rolled over and pulled the blankets up to his chin, not seeing the triumphant grin spreading over his best friend's face.


	13. The Loyal Sort

**Hey guys! Sorry this update is a little later than normal. I've been pretty busy, what with finals coming up, projects due, Christmas shopping and getting ready for the Christmas performances I'm in. I left town for a little bit, also, and I couldn't bring my computer. Just going to answer a few reviews, but thanks to everybody who commented, it means so much to me!**

 **To several people: Nope, sorry. Colin is not Anderson. LOL good guess though. Man, that'd be awkward. But, as I mentioned in an earlier chapter, Anderson and Donovan are both still alive, and Gremione even stalks them from time to time.**

 **Mia: Yes, yes he is. Thanks so much ;)**

 **Guest: Yes, yes he is :) congrats on being the first one to pick up on that.**

 **Kat99421: I may have Neville remember at some point, but not this year.**

 **Kai19: Lol, I love it.**

 **PandasWearGlasses: I love you. I love you. I love you. And, yes. When I read your review I literally did a spit-take, because you are SPOT ON! Except about Dennis.**

 **I just love reading all your ideas on who Colin Creevy is. Don't worry. Come summer (in the story) it'll be VERY clear…and awkward. Love you guys so much! Thanks for reviewing, hope you like this chapter!**

 **On a side note have you all seen the new Sherlock trailer. OMG I EXPLODED INTO RAINBOWS AND FANGIRL MUSH!**

 **-James**

Lucius wasn't sure what to think when he spotted a horribly wrapped and lumpy package on the pile that was meant for Draco, which was addressed to "Mycroft" from "Johnald and Sherlock". The paper it was wrapped in was a garish orange color, and it was tied with a horribly contrasting purple ribbon. His confusion only grew when he watched his son's eyes widen as he lunged for that present first.

"It's from Ronald Weasley," his son explained. "We have funny names for each other." Which, obviously, did nothing to help Lucius' confusion. Narcissa walked into the room as Draco peeled off the horrible packaging, to reveal a rather large photo album. Only the first few pages were filled up, it seemed, leaving room for many other pictures. But most of the pictures that _were_ there, were of that Potter boy. The first picture showed the Gryffindor first years posing in a sort of huddle, with Potter in the dead center. The next was a picture of Potter and another boy peering into a smoking cauldron. The next was a picture of Potter casting an extremely intricate illusion spell in, what Lucius recognized as, the History Classroom.

Draco had a fond smile on his face as he poured over the pictures, completely ignoring the package that _obviously_ held a Nimbus 2000, which the boy had begged him for not even two months ago. "Those are your friends, then?" his mother asked him. Draco started a bit, and looked up.

"Yes," he said. "They're all a bunch of idiots. But they're the good sort."

"And what sort is that, dear?"

Draco thought about it for a moment. "The loyal sort."

****1047****

It was strange to be going back to Hogwarts, John thought to himself. Over Christmas break, he'd nearly forgotten that he was no longer Doctor John Watson. He had been surrounded by good smells and warm feelings, along with all the people in the world he loved most (except for Mycroft and Gremione, but oh well.) He and Sherlock even had a silly little "case" over break. The Lovegoods down the way were investigating the existence of "Crumple Horned Snortlacks", and their search had apparently lead them to the Burrow. Sherlock had been excited once an argument had broken out that they didn't exist, to which the Lovegood father had replied that you only couldn't see them if you were unintelligent, or uncreative.

So Sherlock had set off with John in tow, much to his family's amusement, to find the Snortlacks with the Lovegoods. It was the strangest afternoon John had ever experienced…and coming from him, that's saying a lot. He saw Mr. Lovegood talking to trees, Luna Lovegood doing a funky dance (apparently to draw out the Snortlacks) in the middle of a glen, even convincing Sherlock to join them both. Sherlock had been scratching runes on trees mumbling backwards while hopping on one foot.

But all their nonsense paid off, because at exactly 2:45 that afternoon a circle of mushrooms popped up in the snow, which melted to reveal green grass and flowers. In the center of a circle appeared a small pixie like thing with tiny, wrinkly horns and a pig snout. It stood there and laughed itself silly at the four of them (honestly, _rude_ ), before vanishing into thin air. Mr. Lovegood had shouted for joy, gathering up the mushrooms, gifting one each to John and Sherlock for their help.

Molly had rolled her eyes at hearing Mr. Lovegoods' story, but had thanked him for entertaining the boys that afternoon and invited them to stay for dinner (featuring mushroom soup). All in all, it had been a good break. But now, they were on the train back. Mycroft was arguing with Gremione about the existence of Qi and Auras in the train compartment they were sharing. Neville and (ugh) Creevy were oohing and aahing over the mushroom that Sherlock had saved from Molly's kitchen knife. And John was sitting near the window with Sherlock's head in his lap as the other boy sprawled out dramatically, reading through John's copy of _The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes_.

John had been slightly miffed to discover Creevy had also been given a copy by Sherlock. Now, John sat there smugly as he combed his fingers through Sherlock's hair while Colin sat across from them with Greg.

"I can't believe the book you gave me!" Colin said excitedly. "I love it so much; you know it's just like you two. It's odd really…" Colin trained off, but then shook his head. "I couldn't help but hear your two voices as I was reading it. My Mum got a bit angry when she saw it, but she let me keep it."

"Why'd she get angry?" Neville asked from where he was sitting with Sherlock's feet on his lap.

Colin sighed, shrugging. "I dunno. She's always hated Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson. Always going on about how Holmes was a fake and Watson was just being used by him."

John flinched. "A while before they…died…Sherlock Holmes' reputation was attacked by a man named Moriarty. He made people believe that Sherlock wasn't really a genius, that he was just a kind of magician. And so he threatened the people Sherlock loved, saying that if Sherlock didn't kill himself that his loved ones would die."

"But his loved ones, save for his older brother, didn't know," Mycroft picked up when John had hesitated. "So, Sherlock, with the help of his brother, made it look like he jumped off a building and killed himself. And it was so convincing that even Doctor Watson, who was right there, thought he was truly dead." John's grip on Sherlock tightened minutely.

"I never knew that," Colin whispered. "I thought it was all just another trick he did to prove he was right."

"In a way, it was," said Sherlock, speaking up for the first time on the train ride. "While he was 'dead', Holmes traveled, killing all the people that were a threat to his Doctor and the various other goldfish in his life. And when he was through, he returned to London where they lived happily ever after for another year…and then died."

Neville sniffled. "It's so sad…They seemed a lot like you two, John. In love but they never outright said it. I swear I could help but cry when I read that Watson married someone else. I'm just glad he got rid of her soon enough."

"Me too," said Sherlock, going back to his book.

"Anyway," John said. "Some people don't believe that Sherlock was actually innocent, despite the fact that he's been legally declared such since then, post mortem."

"Except it wasn't really," Greg grumbled, but she didn't look too upset.

"That explains a lot, I guess," Colin sighed. "Me and my brother are fans though. Whenever we go to London, we always talk Da into letting us go see the Baker Street Museum."

"I'd rather like to go," said Sherlock, not taking his eyes off the pages of his book. "It's been…quite some time."

Colin brightened up. "When you all visit my house this summer, we can talk Da into it!"

Gremione gave a laugh. "I went this last summer. Did you know that the upstairs bedroom is labeled the 'guest room' and the downstairs is labeled 'Holmes and Watson's bedroom'?" John choked a bit on his own spit.

"Well, yeah," Neville said, confused. "Why wouldn't they share?"

There was a giggle then, that made everyone pause and look at Mycroft in confusion, though he had his usual mask back in place. "They weren't married!" John protested. "They weren't even gay!"

"Says who?" asked Sherlock and Colin at the same time. Sherlock glanced over at Creevy and grinned, then went back to his book. John pouted for the rest of the ride.

*****1047*****

The dorm seemed strangely cold, Sherlock noticed as he and the other boys entered with the intention to unpack. Sherlock went over his trunk, which an elf had brought up earlier, and drew out several text books and school paper, which he threw on the dresser. He then messed up John's bed, and threw his violin case on top of his own. Neville giggled when he saw what Sherlock was doing, and he drew out several plants which his Gran had given him for Christmas and set them all out in window sills and on top of any flat surface. Dean started tossing candy wrappers around, and Seamus lit several candles. Colin began using Sticking Charms to attach pictures to the walls, Dean put back up his Chudley Cannons poster. Sherlock pinned red and gold banners everywhere, which had words on it saying things like "Mycroft's fat" or "You're all idiots". John took out the quilts Molly had insisted they take and spread them out over everyone's mattresses, and threw his maroon Weasley sweater over the back of a desk chair. Then the six boys stood back and admired their handiwork, before busting out into giggles.

It was a mess, but now it felt like home.

****1047****

As they walked down the stairs to the common room, as it was nearing time for lunch, there was a shrill squeal as a blur tackled Sherlock. Lavender wrapped herself around him babbling "thank you thank you" over and over again. Sherlock awkwardly patted her head and then pushed her away abruptly, though Lavender honestly didn't seem offended. Her eyes were shiny, and around her neck was a pretty necklace.

"Sherlock found my necklace I lost and sent it to me over break," Lavender sniffled by way of explanation. "I've been looking for it since Halloween, where'd you find it?" she asked Sherlock.

"Outside by the Herbology greenhouses the day before we left. I tried to give it to Gremione, because it looked like something a girl would wear, but she identified it as yours. I held onto it, because I thought it might be a nice Christmas surprise," Sherlock explained, looking at Lavender warily, as though he were afraid she might pounce on him. Again.

She didn't, but it looked like she wanted to. "It really was, Sherlock. Thanks so much." Sherlock nodded and inched his way around her. "You're so lucky, John," she sighed after Sherlock had followed Seamus out the Fat Lady portrait. "If you two weren't already so in love, I might have tried asking him out this summer." Lavender gave John a smile. "But I'd never come between such beautiful love" and with that the little girl danced away, leaving John spluttering after her.

***1047*****

That night John snuck out of the dorm. He couldn't sleep; Sherlock hadn't come back to bed yet. As best as John could figure, Sherlock was trying to grow mushrooms in his trunk. John had seen Sherlock invisibility cloak thrown over a chair, and so John wriggled out from under the blankets and grabbed it, throwing it over his shoulders and pulling the hood up. He peeked behind him to double check that his best friend wasn't coming up yet, then ducked out of their room, being as quiet as he could so that he couldn't wake up any of the other boys.

He snuck back to the room with the mirror. John hadn't been back since the night Sherlock had dragged him down in the middle of the night. John wondered if the mirror might show him a different moment in his future now. John pushed open the door and walked across the dusty floor, past the mountain of stacked chairs. The mirror was still standing there, John walked up to it and stared, and ache growing in his chest.

It was much the same as before, except it was just him and Sherlock. They seemed about the same age as before, perhaps a little older as John now spotted a bit of grey near Sherlock's ears, except they were both wearing pajama bottoms, with Sherlock wearing a Weasley Jumper ™ that had SH stitched to the front. They were curled up on the couch in front of the telly, watching a documentary on bees. Sherlock was saying something angrily, probably correcting the narrator. And Mirror John laughed, repeatedly kissing the top of Sherlock's head, which was tucked under his chin as the raven haired man relaxed against him.

John noticed something he hadn't before…they were both wearing rings on their left hands. John felt something inside of him uncurl, a smile tugged at his lips. "Back again, Mr. Weasley?" John flinched in surprise, whirling around. Dumbledore was standing there smiling genially at him.

"I'm sorry, sir," John said quickly. "I-I didn't see you."

Dumbledore continued smiling gently at him, and John relaxed a bit. "Strange how nearsighted being invisible can make you. So," said Dumbledore, moving to stand by Ron, "you, like hundreds before you, have discovered the delights of the Mirror of Erised."

"Why is it called that, sir?"

"Surly you've realized by now what it does?"

"Sherlock…thinks it shows the future."

"A good guess, certainly. Tell me, Mr. Weasley, do you still see yourself surrounded by your friends and family."

John struggled not to blush, too embarrassed to question how Dumbledore knew his previous vision. "N-no."

Dumbledore's eyes widened, his eyebrows joining to his hairline. "May I ask what it has changed to?" John chewed on his bottom lip.

"It's just me and Sherlock now," John said quietly. "We're both safe…and happy, older too…just the two of us" _like before_ , he thought to himself, _but better_. Dumbledore smiled again. "But when Sherlock looked into it, he just saw the two of us, as we are now."

Dumbledore's smile turned bitter sweet. "Forgive me, Mr. Weasley, but I feel that I must somewhat disappoint you: this mirror does not hold predictions of the future." John felt something in his chest freeze, then drop to his stomach. "Now, now," Dumbledore put a hand on his shoulder, "Let me explain. The happiest man on earth would be able to use the Mirror of Erised like a normal mirror, that is, he would look into it and see himself exactly as he is. Does that help?"

John felt his cheeks heat up. Dumbledore chuckled. ""It shows us nothing more or less than the deepest, most desperate desire of our hearts. Mr. Potter has spent his whole life without a true family, without love or friends. Then, he met you and fell in love. I suspect he's never been happier, and I know he wants nothing more than his current life. Which is why Sherlock is able to use this mirror as simply that: a mirror. It speaks a lot about our dear Mr. Potter, that he wishes for nothing more than to be standing next to you. As for yourself, you've suffered from illness your whole life, constantly in fear because of warnings your parents and brothers give you about the danger of Dark wizards and creatures. Then, Mr. Potter cures and protects you. Therefore, it's understandable that you'd see this lasting forever. However, this mirror will give us neither knowledge or truth. Men have wasted away before it, entranced by what they have seen, or been driven mad, not knowing if what it shows is real or even possible." John's face was completely red, though he felt incredibly sober, thinking about what Dumbledore was telling him.

"That is why, the Mirror is being moved tomorrow. And I must ask you won't look for it. I dare say I won't need you to ask to pass on the message to Sherlock. He's already found what men spend their whole lived looking for."

"What's that?"

Dumbledore smiled as he turned. "Happiness."

John sat there for quite a while after that, staring at the mirror, Sherlock's cloak wrapped around him. He felt…a bit empty. In the Mirror, Sherlock and John had switched places. Instead of Sherlock using John as a backrest, Sherlock was holding John tightly, pillowed against himself. John laughed bitterly. Here he was, straight but in love with his male best friend. There was no denying it. Somewhere deep down, he unconsciously wished more than anything else to marry Sherlock…to go back to 221b Baker Street and live out their lives together. To grow old together. He loved Sherlock…more than anything.

But Sherlock…according to both Dumbledore _and Sherlock himself_ , Sherlock was perfectly happy—literally perfectly happy—being just as they were now: friends. Best friends. Just friends. John scrubbed at his face. He knew then that they could never be anything more than what they were now, because that would ruin Sherlock's happiness, which is something John would kill someone else for doing, and never do himself.

But on the bright side, he and Sherlock were very close. John was happy how they were now, despite deeply wishing for more. Either way though, John reasoned with himself, they were eleven. And it'd be inappropriate to go further now. Not to mention it'd be a bad influence for the other boys. And on the even brighter side, Sherlock's "vision" in the mirror showed that John was the most important person in Sherlock's life. That was enough for John. More than enough after a decade of missing him.

And speaking of missing Sherlock…John rose from the floor and dusted off the seat of his pants. He was les careful making his way back to the dorm, going faster than he had gone coming down to the mirror's room. When he made it back to the dorm, Sherlock was pacing back and forth, looking worried. When the door clicked shut, Sherlock spun and made a relieved sound as he sprinted for John, burying his face in John's pajama top. John hugged him back fiercely.

"Sorry, I was restless," John explained, whispering. "I just went for a walk. Didn't think you'd be out till morning."

"S'fine" Sherlock mumbled, leading John back to their bed by the hand. They crawled under the blankets and John snuggled closer, resting his head on Sherlock's chest, falling asleep to the rhythm of his heart.

****1047***

Sherlock smiled at his John as he entered the common room after Quidditch practice one day. It had been raining, as proven by John's dripping, muddy robes, so Sherlock had been persuaded by Gremione to stay in and play chess with her, rather than going to watch like he usually did. Sherlock quickly moved one of his piece, putting Greg into check mate, then stood and wrapped his arms around John, not really minding the mud. John laughed at him and set his broom down. But Sherlock saw a tightness in John's shoulders.

"What's wrong?" he asked suddenly, his voice and eyes hard, his fists curled. "Did someone bully you?" he demanded. "I _knew_ I should have gone today!" John covered Sherlock's mouth with one of his muddy hands.

"It's nothing like that, I swear! Besides, between all my brothers, you and Mycroft I really don't think anyone would try bullying me."

"They better not," Sherlock said, casting a glare around the room at the various sixth and seventh years which were studying around them. More than a few had to cover up coos or giggles. "What's wrong, then?"

"Nothing really, I'm just wondering why Snape's referring the next Quidditch match." Sherlock relaxed.

"Oh, obvious John. He's doing it to protect you during the game," Sherlock said. "Clearly. It'll be easy to intervene if he's on the pitch with you. Good. I approve. I actually already spoke to Hooch about flying closer to you players during the game. Just in case." John sighed, but was smiling, so Sherlock figured he hadn't broken some obscure social rule. However, Seamus and Neville, who were sitting nearby were confused as to why Sherlock thought this was a good thing.

"That's crazy!" Neville gasped.

"He's out to get you" Seamus agreed.

"Don't play," said Neville.

"Say you're ill," said Seamus.

"Pretend to break your leg," Neville suggested.

"Really break your leg," said Seamus.

Sherlock glared at his friend(?) and stood in front of John protectively.

****1047****

"Brother, mine,"

"Fat arse"

"Sherlock!"

Mycroft sat down across from Sherlock, who was sitting between Greg, who was scandalized that Sherlock would curse in the Great Hall, and John, eating dinner. In Mycroft's hands was a rather large tomb. "I've been researching Mr. Flamel, as promised." Mycroft flipped though the book, all four of them ignoring the glances they were getting from the various people around them. Sherlock sat up a bit more to look at the page.

"He created the Philosopher Stone" Sherlock noted to John and Greg. "That must be what Fluffy's guarding."

"Also, brother dear," Mycroft said. "When you inevitably go to get the stone, bring your violin. Cerberus' main weakness is to music. They fall asleep in the presence of soothing tones, and become aggravated with harsh tones…such as screaming." Sherlock nodded.

"Wait," John said. "What's the stone do. And Sherlock's not going anywhere NEAR that thing!" Sherlock patted John's head, but then answered John's question.

"It's more common use is the ability to turn certain metal, such as lead, into gold. The second, lesser known ability is creating the Elixir of Immortality. One drink and you stay the exact same age you are…for approximately ten years. After that you must consume another ounce. Much more than that, and you begin to age backwards." Mycroft answered as he closed the book again, shrinking it and passing it to his brother. "Keep it, I've another copy."

Sherlock nodded again, pocketing the book, deep in thought. "I want that stone. I don't care about gold; I'm already rich. But I don't ever want to leave John again. Not even in a hundred years." Mycroft gave his brother a smile.

"I completely understand," he said, uncharacteristically with fondness in his voice. "I'll help if you require it. Always."

Sherlock pinched his lips, but then spat out a "My gratitude, brother. But don't get used to it." Mycroft smirked.

"Wouldn't dream of it."

***1047****

The next month passed by with nothing remarkable, save for John breaking Hogwarts record for shortest Quidditch game in one hundred and seventy years. Oliver was so nervous about Snape favorite Hufflepuff in the match that he kept drilling it into John's head that he had to catch the Snitch fast. And so John did. The game lasted a scant five minutes, and the first year Slytherins shocked the rest of the House of Snakes when they all jumped to their feet cheering for their friend.

Hogwarts unity kept up strong. Mycroft even began partnering in Potions with Neville, whispering funny stories about his godfather to help the clumsier boy get over his irrational fear of Snape. Ravenclaws started up study groups, which anyone was invited to. Many, many people started up new sports teams, like soccer or dodgeball, that mixed the houses and played games on the pitch on weekends. Hufflepuffs took it upon themselves to teach the Muggleborns about wizarding culture, and some Slytherins joined in to help them.

Being first years, Sherlock and John didn't think anything of it: they'd never known Hogwarts to be any different. But the older children sometimes just paused and thought about how things now were with amazement. Of course, there were people who resented it, mostly purebloods who thought that things shouldn't be so mixed, and Muggleborns who resented wizarding culture being spread, but for the most part everyone was happy with the way things were.

Easter holiday rolled around, though not many people actually celebrated. Sherlock thought it was silly, and Ron only saw it as a means to get candy. Molly sent her boys (including Sherlock, Neville and—surprisingly-Mycroft) and Greg baskets of chocolate eggs. Mycroft's parents sent an enormous amount of top quality sweets, which he shared with all the first years from all four Houses (and Fred and George who snuck some, not that Mycroft minded). But mostly it was just a day for studying.

Studying for everyone but Mycroft and Sherlock, that it. The two Holmeses were off somewhere debating something, leaving John and Hermione by themselves in the library, where the both of them were furiously trying to get their enormous load of homework finished by the end of break, when Ron looked up and saw Hagrid browsing the shelves. They didn't say anything, but both children watched the giant closely.  
He was acting weird, holding something behind his back, shifting around corners like he was trying to be stealthy. After a few moments, Hagrid fled the library just as Sherlock walked in.

"I'm going to see what section he was in," said Greg, standing up from the small cramped table she and John had been working at, scurrying across the library. Sherlock frowned at her, then looked a question at John.

"Hagrid was acting weird," John explained. Sherlock nodded his understanding, sitting down at the table. Gremione came back a minute later, with her arms full of books.

"Dragons!" she whispered. "Hagrid was looking up stuff about dragons! Look at these: Dragon Species of Great Britain and Ireland; From Egg to Inferno, A Dragon Keeper's Guide."

"Hagrid's always wanted a dragon, he told me so the first time I ever met him, " said Sherlock. "He promised me that if he ever got one, he'd let me name it."

"But it's against our laws," said John. "Dragon breeding was outlawed by the Warlocks' Convention of 1709, everyone knows that. It's hard to stop Muggles from noticing us if we're keeping dragons in the back garden - anyway, you can't tame dragons, it's dangerous. You should see the burns Charlie's got off wild ones in Romania."

"Laws," Sherlock chuckled as if John had told a particularly clever joke. An hour later, the trio found themselves knocking on Hagrid's front door. "Who's there!" boomed out the giant's voice from inside.

"It's me! Let me in!" Sherlock demanded before opening the door and just walking in. John and Hermione followed, looking at Hagrid apologetically. Hagrid stood there for a moment, before sighing and laughing under his breath muttering "just like his da, that one".

It was stifling hot inside. Even though it was such a warm day, there was a blazing fire in the grate. "What'd you wan' then, Sherlock?" asked Hagrid a minute later after serving them all tea.

"We want to see the dragon," Sherlock said earnestly. "Remember you promised if you ever got one you'd show it to me!"

Hagrid ruffled Sherlock's hair affectionately. "Ah, you," he said happily. "s'nice that you've got a heart for creatures, 'arry. 'mean Sherlock. But ther' ain' nought a dragon yet. Hagrid made a gesture with one big hand for Sherlock to look in the fire grate, where Hagrid opened the metal door to the fire. A burst of heat leaped out, and the three children had to shield their eyes. There, in the middle of the fire, was a big, black, egg."

"It's not hatched yet," Sherlock breathed. "Oh…Hagrid you _must_ let us see it hatch!" Hagrid laughed again.

"Course!"

"Where did you get it, Hagrid?" said Ron, crouching over the fire to get a closer look at the egg. "It must've cost you a fortune."

"Won it," said Hagrid. "Las' night. I was down in the village havin' a few drinks an' got into a game o' cards with a stranger. Think he was quite glad ter get rid of it, ter be honest."

"Imbecile" Sherlock snorted.

"Now, now," Hagrid admonished, despite looking like he completely agreed. "But what are you going to do with it when it's hatched?" said Gremione.

"Well, I've bin doin' some readin' , said Hagrid, pulling a large book from under his pillow. "Got this outta the library - Dragon Breeding for Pleasure and Profit - it's a bit outta date, o' course, but it's all in here. Keep the egg in the fire, 'cause their mothers breathe on em, see, an' when it hatches, feed it on a bucket o' brandy mixed with chicken blood every half hour. An' see here - how ter recognize diff'rent eggs - what I got there's a Norwegian Ridgeback. They're rare, them."

He looked very pleased with himself, but Hermione didn't. "Hagrid, you live in a wooden house," she said. But Hagrid wasn't listening. He was humming merrily as he stoked the fire, which was casting a red glow on Sherlock's enraptured face. "Can I tell Mycroft?" Sherlock asked suddenly.

"Who's tha'?" Hagrid asked, frowning. "Can you trust 'em".

"I do," Sherlock said. "His real name is Malfoy, but I prefer to call him—"

"Malfoy?!" Hagrid gasped panicked. "Now, Sherlock!"

"He's not like his father!" Sherlock said. "I promise!" Hagrid hesitated for a long minute, then he exhaled heavily.

"I trust ya', Sherlock. Go ahead" Hagrid said, shaking his head as he covered the egg in ashes. Sherlock beamed at him, making the giant smile back, then ran out of the cottage to find his brother with John and Greg at his heels.

****1047****

"…a dragon?" Mycroft asked, obviously interested. "He's aware he lives in a wooden hut, yes?"

"That's what _I_ said," grumbled Gremione. Mycroft gave her a dry grin.

"I'd like to see it hatch, but it poses a problem if it stays. For one, your friend may be fired. And for another…dragons are notoriously hard to control. It's unwise to keep it near a school."

"Yes, but I'm sure you know a place where little Francis could be safely trained before it's returned to Hagrid." Sherlock said, making John suddenly realize why Sherlock wanted to tell his brother. Mycroft nodded.

"I do, actually. I know the man your brother works for, John. Charles, right? Anyway, I'm sure I could convince him to take…Francis…without alerting my father. I've quite a bit of my own money, after all. I've been investing with the money I saved up from my allowance since I was four."

"Why Francis?" asked Greg, with a bemused look on her face.

"Like Francis Drake, the pirate," Sherlock explained, grinning like he'd told a joke. Mycroft seemed to get it, because he chuckled.

*****1047******

Voldemort watched as his host taught the class. He felt a twinge of regret, remembering his old desire to become the DADA teacher of Hogwarts. That desire never truly left him, though he'd long since resigned himself to never holding the position. He watched through Quirrel's eyes as the students practiced _Petrificus Totalis_ on each other.

He had the Hufflepuffs and the Gryffindors today. A good combination, as there'd always been little tension between these two particular Houses. Though, in recent months, about seventy percent of all interhouse bullying died over night. Childish voices filled the air as the white light of the spell shot out from the points of wands. Nearly everyone's aim was horrible. Perhaps next lesson he'd each them _Litur Chroma_ , which simple shot a colored light that stained whatever it landed on for exactly five minutes. Then the lesson after that, he'd bring out some targets for them to practice on.

There were a select few with natural aim, Ronald "John" Weasley being the one to stand out most. He was obviously showing off for Potter, throwing the spell over his shoulder, under a leg, while summersaulting, with his eyes closed. Potter was giggling at his little boyfriend's antics, and once again Voldemort weight the pros and cons of attempting to recruit the Little Weasley.

He'd learned through the gossip in the teacher's lounge that Potter had a deep seated mistrust of muggles, because of poor treatment at the hands of his relatives. He'd heard Severus comment on it, apparently having heard it from Lucius who heard it from his son who was told so straight from Potter himself that Potter couldn't care less about muggles. He knew that Minerva, who was friends with Molly Weasley, had been told by her friend that Sherlock didn't want to go back to the muggle world over break. Madame Pomfrey, who had given Potter a physical the day he came in with a headache, had reported that Potter was severely malnourished and bore signs of abuse.

Perhaps it wouldn't be so hard to recruit Potter and his little followers after all.


	14. Friends, and Best Friends

**Hello peoples, Christmas Break, so I have a bit more time to write than normal, thus the quick update. Hope none of you mind ;) I love it when you guys review with ideas about silly things to include! This was meant to be a funny story.**

 **Guilty Pleasures: Lol, I'd love to throw that in….perhaps not for a little while though. I've got plans but never fear, dear reader. LOVE WILL PREVAIL!**

 **Jasull: I love long reviews! I'm glad you like my story XD And I am considering having Sherlock join Voldie, it all depends on (a combination of) where my muses lead me, and what the peoples say in the reviews (HINT HINT).**

 **Fangirl of Mass Destruction: I swear, everytime I see your username I giggle. I just love it. Anyway…no they're not. Not for a little while. I mean, OBVIOUSLY I've got nothing against Johnlock, but I'm not wanting for a couple of little kids to strike up a serious relationship quite yet.**

 **Tamha: Wow, that is a super awesome idea…I kinda wish I'd thought of it. Darn…I've got plans for Colin, and he's not who you think he is. But gods of netherworlds that's an awesome idea…maybe another story. GLAD YOU LIKE IT!**

 **Ciel. Michaelis: YES YES HE ISSSSS**

 **The Insane M: Voila**

 **(…Santa Baby…I want reviews and really that's not…a lot…been an angel all year Santa Baby…review and favorite me tonight…:))**

Lucius gingerly picked up the book that his heir had left in his room when he went back to Hogwarts at the start of the second semester. He sat down on Draco's bed and opened the cover to the first page, taking in the pictures and little notes saying things like "He's pretending to be frigid again" or "We really need to put a leash on him". As Lucius had noted on Christmas morning, each picture predominately featured Harry Potter.

The boy was, admittedly, remarkably good looking despite his small size. According to his dear friend Severus, the child was also increadiby smart and powerful for any age. Add that to the fact that this was, in fact, the Boy-Who-Lived and the person with the most public favor at the moment (not to meantion hideously rich, nearly as much as the Malfoy's themselves) and Lucius had to admit his son could have chosen a worse person to be obsessed with.

Heirs would not be an issue, thanks to the fertility potion that had been invented fifty years ago, and rumor had it that children born of two wizards or two witches were more powerful than their counterparts. Lucius sighed massaging his temples. It could be a beneficial match; Draco would be safe in the coming war, protected by Dumbledore. As much as Lucius believed in what the Dark Lord stood for when he'd first joined the Knights of Walpurgis as a young man (still believed), he could not deny that his Lord had gone insane shortly thereafter. Lucius had no idea what happened. But suddenly their more nobler (and political) goals were buried under "DIE MUGGLE SCUM". And if their Lord had somehow survived and was coming back…well it had been over a decade…who knew how much his Lord's sanity had deteriorated since then.

While Lucius himself would never align himself with the Light (he was already marked), his son had a choice. And looking at this strange gift, as well as the fact that Draco had hardly shut up about Potter all break, it wasn't hard to come to the conclusion that his son was infatuated with the Potter Heir. Even though Lucius would have preferred someone of purer blood, it wasn't a terrible match.

Now all he had to do is convince Dumbledore, and his son would be safe from Lucius' old master.

****1047*****

Percy loved his family, more than anything. He worshiped Bill, who had achieved a high position in the banking section of the Ministry as a professional ward breaker. He was proud of Charlie, who tamed dragons for a living. He was fond of the twins, who even Percy had to admit were brilliantly creative. He was proactive of Ginny, who would always be his baby sister, and he wished he could bundle up Ronnie and hide him away to keep him safe and sound.

And then there was Sherlock. Percy counted him as family now, too, though he had no idea how to feel about the strange young man. Sherlock obviously loved "his John" very much, as was evident in the way that Sherlock harshly tore apart anyone who dared speak anything negative about Ron, in the way Sherlock looked at him, heck even just the way Sherlock only ever referred to him as "my John". Sherlock was a genius. Sherlock was powerful.

Sherlock was a social retard.

This worried Percy. Sherlock would often offend people, and Percy got the feeling Sherlock never even knew he was doing it. Sherlock would call everyone by their first names (or what he thought he remembered their first names were) whether or not someone gave them the permission to do so. Sherlock spoke to everyone, except Ron, like they were idiots (which, in comparison to him, they were. But still). Sherlock sometimes put his feet up on the table during meals. He rarely bothered to shake peoples' hands when they were offered. And he seemed to have no idea there was any difference between Purebloods and Muggleborns, or Dark and Light families.

That last one was the most worrying. True, little Draco Malfoy seemed just as brilliant as Sherlock, and just a genuine about his care for his few friends. But he was still a _Malfoy_. They were about as Dark as you could get. Not to mention the old Weasley-Malfoy feud that had been going on so long no one had any idea what it was about anymore. Just that it was the sole reason the Malfoy's could only have one child per generation, and why the Weasley's were destitute with no political power despite being just as old a name.

He didn't think little Draco would ever hurt the adopted Weasley, but there was no question in Percy's mind that his father, Lucius Malfoy, was an evil Death Eater. Which was why he about had a heart attack when:

"By the way, brother, my father has allowed me to invite you to the Manor this summer."

"I'll come if my John's invited."

"Of course."

Percy froze midstep on the way to Potion's class, dropping all his books and papers on the floor. He spun around to see the little gaggle of firsties turn the corner, oblivious to his horror. No. No no no no no nononononoBOTH OF HIS BABY BROTHER's WERE INVITED TO THE MALFOY'S MANOR? His mother would probably jump on the chance to mend the relationships between the families, just so that they wouldn't be so cast away from the upper circle of purebloods. And his dear father thought the best of everyone, and was always insisting "Thing's will work out for the good, they always do".

But there was NO WAY that trip would ever end well. Percy scrambled to collect his books and his nerves as he frantically ran to the Potions class, barely managing to not be late. He was so worried about Sherlock and Ronnie that he botched his rejuvenation potion, causing Snape to snap at him and take five points from Gryffindor. He about cried in relief when Potions was over and it was time for lunch. Running to dump his things in his dorm. He realized luck was on his side when he found Sherlock sitting by himself in the common room as Percy was on his way back down to head to the Great Hall.

The tiny boy was muttering to himself as he poured through a large tome that Percy recognized as the one the Malfoy boy had given him a little while ago. Percy softly approached him and sat down next to him on the couch. "Sherlock?" he said gently. The boy's head snapped up, eyes piercing but in the way that Percy had come to know meant Sherlock was "deducing him", not that he was angry. His hair was more mussed than usual for some reason.

"You're worried about something" it wasn't a question. Percy was about to speak when his adopted brother suddenly gasped and clutched as his sleeve. "Is it John? Is he okay?" Percy had to smile, as he patted the hand twisted in his robes.

"Yes, I'm worried," Percy said. "But about you, not Ronnie." Sherlock relaxed a bit and sat down, curious. "I understand that you are a bit new to the wizarding world, and I wanted to make sure you understood something." Sherlock stayed quiet, but he now had one eyebrow raised. "It's about the Malfoys."

"I'm aware of the feud," Sherlock cut in. "I'm rather curious about that. My brother told me that it's because your great-great-great-great-great grandmother refused to marry his great-great-great-great-great grandfather, then publicly humiliated him. But John said it's because Mycroft's great-great-great grandfather set fire to your families' townhouse, then publicly humiliated the Weasley head, accusing him of infidelity with the Malfoy Lady. The twins said that the Weasley's ancestors outed the Malfoy's as creatures descended from harpies and trolls and—"

"No one really remembers, Sherlock," Percy cut in. "But that not…um…you see, Draco's father worked for-for… _You-Know-Who_. I'm worried that when you and John go to Draco's house, Lord Malfoy will see it as an opportunity to hurt you. I know that you and Draco are close…but you're on opposite sides of the war. I'm not saying that you can't be friends…I think it's great that you're mending bridges. Just be careful. I don't want to lose a brother." With that, Percy stood and ruffled Sherlock's unruly hair before walking out of the common room. Once on the other side of the Fat Lady, Percy hung his head in his hands.

***1047***

John was only slightly concerned when Sherlock didn't show up for lunch. It wouldn't be the first time his best friend had skipped a meal (much to John's ire), but that didn't mean John had to put up with it anymore. So, John quickly gobbled down a sandwich, then made up a plate to take up to Sherlock. He found his friend sitting on their shared bed, his hands clasped under his chin in his "thinking position". John smiled fondly at him, putting the plate on one side of Sherlock, and sitting down on the other.

"What are you thinking about?" he asked.

Sherlock seemed to come back to himself, and blinked owlishly at John. Then at the plate. "I missed lunch."

"I know, wanker," John rolled his eyes. "So eat."

*****1047******

Mycroft was surprised to see his brother sitting alone on a rock near the Black Lake upon looking out a window near the Charms classroom. Excusing himself from Blaise and his other fellow Slytherins, Mycroft leisurely made his way down the flights of stairs and out the doors to cross the grassy lawn. Sherlock didn't look up, despite obviously hearing his approach. Mycroft didn't climb up onto the rock with his brother, deciding to instead lean against it.

"What do you know about the war, Mycroft?" came Sherlock's voice, surprisingly vulnerable sounding.

"Not much," Mycroft admitted grudgingly. "Every account is so biased and garbled it's hard to discern what's fact and what's fabricated. Some say the Dark Lord was a mad man, obsessed with world domination and the extermination of everyone not of pureblood."

"But you don't believe that. And frankly neither do I. From what you tell me of your father, I can't see him going to war for an insane man."

"He did."

"I know, but that can't be all there is to it."

"No," Mycroft agreed, putting up a privacy shield before sliding down to sit on the slightly damp grass, staring out at the Black Lake's rippling waters. "My father told me that Voldemort used to be a great man with a great mind and powerful magic. He was fighting for the protection of our culture, against the people that were slowly destroying it to pacify that Muggleborns coming in. He was fighting for the right to perform any and all magic, and against the people who succeeded in making everything but light magic illegal. All elemental magicks, Dark magicks, blood and soul magicks are all but erased. He fought for creatures' rights—"

"Creature rights?"

Mycroft nodded. "Werewolves and vampires are treated like criminals. Centaurs and merpeople are considered animals. Dragons are raised like sheep and slaughtered for the entertainment of the wealthy and bored. Hippogriffs and Griffins have been hunted nearly to extinction. Basilisks are extinct. Anything not wizard is considered evil."

"What was his official stance on Muggleborns. With how you feel about Gremione, I can't see you hating them."

"I don't actually know the 'official stance', but I do know that originally my father was told that Voldemort just wanted to stop marriages between Muggleborns and Purebloods to preserve the old lines, and amalgamate Muggleborns more fully into our world more fully to preserve our culture. To leave the muggle world where it is: out of ours."

"It's a pity he changed; I quite agree."

***1047****

John's concern for his friend grew throughout the day. In the second half of the lessons, Sherlock was oddly subdued, as though something was bothering him. In DADA class, Sherlock spent the entire class with his eyes focused, narrowed on Professor Quirrell. During dinner, he didn't eat anything either. John put down his goblet and reached for Sherlock's hand, absurdly relieved when Sherlock squeezed back.

That night, they lay side by side rather than tangled up like they usually are, and John tried not to take it personally. Had he done something to Sherlock? Was Sherlock upset about something he'd done or said? He heart jumped into his throat when Sherlock put up a silencing privacy bubble around their bed and closed the curtains shut. "John?" Sherlock asked. "Did you know that the Light side of the war are against creature rights?" John was struck dumb. "And that they're trying to eradicate wizarding culture?"

"No," John said softly. "I didn't"

"I have a theory."

"I'd like to hear it."

Sherlock inched closer, intertwining their hands. "Voldemort is French for 'flight of death'. It's possible that he chose this name…due to his fear of death. Tell me, John. What would a man, who was more powerful than anyone around him, do if he were afraid of dying?"

"Make himself immortal. Or try to." Sherlock nodded.

"John, I don't wish to tell you how I know just yet…but I know that Voldemort has at least, but undoubtedly more than, two different containers for his soul at the moment."

"He divided up his soul?" John turn his head to look at Sherlock. "How?"

"I'm not sure, but I am aware that he doesn't have a body at the moment. And that he's after the Philosopher Stone. From there, one can presume that Voldemort is able to create a new body for himself using the stone. But…but perhaps Voldemort divided up his soul too many times? One can only imagine what doing that kind of damage to your very center would do to your mind. It seems to me that at one point his goals were noble ones."  
"So, in his quest for immortality he went insane. Is that basically what you're telling me?" John asked, laying his head on Sherlock's boney shoulder, feeling the other boy nod in confirmation. "Sherlock…you're not thinking about…fixing him, are you?" Sherlock said nothing.

"Sherlock?"

"Hmm?"

"You're my best friend."

"I'm fond of you, too."

"I'm not going to abandon you just because you're not a supporter of the Light's politics. I wouldn't leave you if you decided to do something as suicidal as attempting to heal Voldemort's mind. Hell, Sherlock. I wouldn't leave you if you one day decided to replace him and become a Dark Lord yourself. I lost you already. Twice. If I had to go through that again, I'd probably go crazy and become a Dark Lord myself."

Sherlock suddenly sat up and caught John by the sides of his face. John felt a pair of lips pressed against his forehead. John swallowed down the lump in his throat, only wrapping his arms around Sherlock's waist. "All you'd have to do is ask me not to, and I wouldn't seek him out." Sherlock whispered.

"So you're actually going to do it?" John asked, pushing down his fear. "What…try and find those soul pieces you were talking about? And so what? Put them back together?"

"…if you'll come with me."

John tightened his grip. "Always"

"Could be dangerous."

"I already agreed, no need to try and convince me anymore."

****1047*****

The next day, Hedwig dropped a note on Sherlock's plate during lunch that had the words "It's hatching" written on it in Hagrid's messy scrawl. Sherlock's face lit up and he practically shoved the note into John's face. "Francis! It's today, John!"

John grinned at him, shoving one last piece of ham into his mouth, then standing up from the table. They and Greg met up with Mycroft at the Slytherin table, Sherlock only having to raise an eyebrow at him to prompt Mycroft into standing and following them out. The four of them raced down the hill, with Sherlock in the lead. Sherlock needed only knock once on the wooden door of Hagrid's hut before the big friendly giant tore it open and ushered them all inside.

On the table was Francis' egg. It had a large crack in the side, and it was wobbling ever so slighting every now and then. "It star'ed 'roun ten minutes 'go. Then the li'l tyke began mak'n noises, he did."

"Noises?" asked Greg. Hagrid grinned, putting a finger to his lips before bending close to the table, tilting his ear towards the egg. The children all copied his movements. Sure enough, there was the sound of high pitched coos and faint scratching. The egg rocked again, and John watched Sherlock stare at the egg with wonder-filled eyes.

Another crack appeared, then another. When the tip of a snout peeked out from a tiny hole in the shell, Sherlock gasped and clutched John's hand tightly. Only a few seconds later, and it split wide open, revealing a slimy little black winged lizard, which was staring straight at Sherlock. Francis cooed and spat out a fire ball. Sherlock reached out without any fear and stroked the tiny thing's scaly hide. "Hullo Francis…aren't you lovely."

"He's a beaut 'e is!" Hagrid crowed, causing the tiny dragon to whip it's head around in surprise to stare at the towering man.

"That's your Uncle Hagrid," Sherlock told the dragon. "He's of the good sort." Francis sneezed, lighting Hagrid's beard on fire. The giant just patted out the flame, then used one large sausage-like finger to stroke Francis' spine.

"Mr. Hagrid?" Malfoy spoke up. "You know that baby dragons are incredibly prone to life-threatening illness in the first year and a half, don't you?" This offhanded comment made Hagrid and Sherlock both freeze. "I'd like to offer my help to prevent Francis from getting sick. It'd be a shame…he's so pretty." Hagrid smiled down at him.

"I knew Sherlock woul'n prick a bad friend," Hagrid said fondly. "Yer nothin' like yer da', you kno' tha'? How ya goin do that, now?"

"Well," said Malfoy. "I have a friend in Romania, he raises them. I already asked, and he'd be willing to come and pick him up for you to take him to a dragon preserve. Once Francis is old enough to be on his own, about eighteen months or so, he promised to bring him back. I offered to pay him a substantial amount upon Francis' return, so I know he'll follow through."

Hagrid seemed speechless. It took a full minute for him to answer. "Tha' be mighty good of ye, Malfoy."

Sherlock was sulking. "Can I at least say good bye?"

Hagrid turned an affectionate eye to where Francis was nuzzling Sherlock's palm. "'course, ye can,"

Which was how they ended up outside in the Forbidden Forest past midnight the following Tuesday. Hagrid and Fang stood watch while Sherlock and the three other children sat gathered around the little brass crate that held Francis. Sherlock was pretending not to sniffle as he tenderly stroked Francis' wings. John was amazed that this was the same man that enjoyed dissecting human bodies. Then again…dragons _were_ much more interesting that humans.

Ten minutes after they started waiting, three riders on broomsticks flew into the clearing. Charlie Weasley was among them. "Hey there, Ronnie!" Charlie greeted his little brother. "And Sherlock, too! Good to see you again!" Ron greeted his brother, but Sherlock just rubbed Francis' rapidly growing horns. "Hey there, Sherlock," Charlie said softly. "He'll be safe with us" one of Charlie's companions voiced his agreement while the other just nodded. "And if it'll make you feel better, why don't the four of you come visit us in the summer, huh?"

"Really?" asked Sherlock suspiciously.

"Certainly," replied Charlie.

With a sigh, Sherlock agreed. "Goodbye, Francis. I'll see you soon."

Francis roared unhappily, butting up against the side of his cage nearest to Sherlock. Charlie looked between the two of them with a happy look on his face. "Would you like to help out with the dragons when you visit? You've got quite a way with them."

Sherlock smiled slightly, though obviously still a bit sad that Francis would be leaving for Romania. But soon the three men were off again, this time with a crate suspended between their three brooms. Mycroft patted Sherlock's back, and was about to say something when a frantic whinny echoed through the forest.

Hagrid gripped the crossbow he'd brought with him, and Fang whimpered, hiding behind his master. "What was that?" Gremione demanded.

"Unicorn," Hagrid said, looking worried. "Somethin's been attacking them."

"And yet you let us rendezvous in the forest _anyway_?" Mycroft asked incredulously while Sherlock asked "Attacking unicorns?" at the exact same time and took off running towards the sound of the noise.

"Sherlock!" John screamed, running after him. The Forest was dense and hard to navigate through, but somehow he didn't lose sight of Sherlock. Finally, he managed to catch hold of the other boys' shoulder. Sherlock was standing rigid. "Sherlock?" John looked around him, and it's only thanks to his soldier training that he didn't faint. There, was a man in a cloak drinking from the neck of a still breathing unicorn.

Sherlock drew his wand and threw a " _Depulso!_ " at the creature and it was thrown backwards. " _Confringo!"_ but the creature dove away from the blasting curse and with a _crack_ apparated away. "Damn!" Sherlock cursed. "We must be passed the Hogwarts wardline!"

"What was that thing?" John demanded, trying to reign in his pounding heart. Sherlock ignored him as he softly approached the wounded unicorn.

"There, there," Sherlock said. "I'm so sorry…oh…what did it do to you…" John watched in disbelief as Sherlock muttered healing incantations over the unicorn's neck. " _Tergeo. Lleweb. Guerissau maxima. Mitaychara._ "

It was around this point that Hagrid tromped into the clearing with Greg and Mycroft by his side…though Fang was nowhere to be seen. "Oh Merl'n," Hagrid groaned as Greg tried not to retch at the horrible sight. But soon, Sherlock had mended the wounds. Yet the creature was still very weak.

"I can't just leave it here!" Sherlock insisted when Hagrid tried to tell the boy that there wasn't anything more they were able to do; that no one at Hogwarts had the know-how to heal a unicorn.

"We shall tend to her," said a low voice. Hagrid raised his bow towards the centaur that had stepped into the clearing. "My brethren shall forgive you trespassing into our territory, as you have done this Forrest a great favor. Therefore, we shall allow you to leave. However, should you come back, they may not be so forgiving." Sherlock rose slowly to his feet.

"You'll help her?" the centaur nodded.

"I shall." Sherlock took one last look at the magnificent unicorn, and stroked her long neck. Then he and the rest of them somberly left the Forrest. Hagrid walked them back to the castle, then bid them goodnight.

****1047****

Sherlock had decided that he had to act, now. It was a Saturday, the older kids were at Hogsmeade, the younger were mostly holed up in their dorms. Several of the teachers had left for one of the pubs in Hogsmeade as well. It was the best time for it. Those who weren't enjoying the warm day, were somewhere studying for the exams that were coming up in a month's time. As soon as John was done eating lunch, Sherlock grabbed hold of his hand (quietly relishing the fact that in this life he could do so whenever he wanted, and John wouldn't grow upset at him) and dragged his best friend to the nearest boy's bathroom.

"Sherlock," John sighed. "Why do I need to be in here, too?" Sherlock ignored him, pulling his invisibility cloak out of his pocket, and throwing it over the both of them. "What are we doing?"

"I'm getting the stone," Sherlock whispered to him. "Will you come?"

"Of course."

*************************************104************************************

 **MERRY CHRISTMASSS**

 **And Hanukah and Kwanza and Winter Solstice and any other day I forgot to mention!**

 **Sorry it was a bit shorter, hope you don't mind. Have a happy…..day!**


	15. Prophecy

**GWahahahahaa**

 **Sam, you're a dork. Thank you for making me laugh.**

 **I'd like to publicly thank the people who PMed me, I love those even more than reviews. And I'd like to thank k505 for helping me brainstorm. This person is brill, people. Thank you to all the people who reviewed such lovely things to me, I swear I have the best readers in the world. You all are so nice. For every negative comments I get, there's always twenty more lovely people there to cheer me up, and I can't tell you how much that means to me, and how critical it is for my writing process.**

 **Marsetta: I think you'll enjoy what happens for when our fav BroTP finds out that Lucius "ships" them (though you understand Malfoy Sr. is looking at it purely politically). I've got big plans for that, and summer (in the story, not actual summer) is coming soon, so you'll find out then. XD**

 **Alec Castairs: I LOVE YOU TOOOOO! What does your name mean? Lol, as funny as that idea is, I've actually already written up a little bit of an outline for second year (I'm really proud of myself. I wasn't even actually sure when I started if I'd be able to get it done so…) But I think you'll like my take on second year anyway. The plot really isn't going to go that "fast" in terms of me just flying through their school years. I'm going to be going through all seven books. Hope you're not too upset by that.**

 **SB: Oh, he is.**

 **Tastybigsexy: Alright so, Yes, in the movies each time Harry destroyed a Horcrux Voldemort became a little bit crazier. However, that's because Voldemort was also slowly dying. As Harry was destroying the Horcruxes, the soul piece inside of them died or faded or moved on, whatever. What Sherlock has in mind is NOT to destroy the Horcruxes, but rather mend the soul pieces together. Does that help exaplain things?**

 **Alright, sorry that was a bit long, but I wanted to make sure I answered all of the questions. I'm sorry if I missed some; there were a lot of reviews to go through but HEY! That's a problem I like having. Happy New Year, and I hope you like this chapter.**

 **PM, Fav, Follow or Review, please….I'm not picky :)**

Albus Wolfric Percival Brian Dumbledore stared out the window, pondering. Fawkes was resting in his little make-shift nest. It was just after his burning day, and his soft downy baby feathers had only just finished growing. Albus picked up one of his Calming Drought laced lemon drops and rolled it in his fingers as he watched the small Malfoy boy sit next to the Muggleborn girl, Granger, near the Black Lake. The two small first years spoke, obviously sharing whispered, childish secrets from the way their two heads were bent near each other.

Eleven years ago, Albus had been told a prophecy that changed his life, and the fate of the war. _The One with the Power to vanquish the Dark approaches, born as the seventh month dies…Again and again revealed, again and again survived…thrice born before, now once again arisen: the Lord of the Light approaches…born of the light, marked by the Darkness and claimed as its own…imbued with power known not, blessed with life ever renewed. Joined by a warrior of peace by his side, for neither can live unless the other survives…the one with the power to vanquish the Dark shall return as the seventh month dies._

It had been told to him by a dying prophet in Delphi, he'd gone seeking answers of why Voldemort became what he did. How could he stop Tom? Was Tom even inside of the monster called "Voldemort" anymore, and could he be saved? Instead of answering him, the Oracle had opened her mouth and uttered these words, just before all life left her body.

Dumbledore stored the memory in his pensive, which was locked under his strongest wards. He returned to Scotland, his mind spinning. The "Lord of Light" to be "claimed" by Darkness as its own? Was there no hope for the war? The prophecy said that the child to be born had the _ability_ to vanquish the dark, but gave to guarantee that they would. In fact, it rather seemed like they wouldn't. "Marked by the Darkness, claimed as its own…" And who was this "warrior of peace?" in a moment of vanity, Dumbledore wondered if the prophecy didn't mean himself. The Darkness obviously meant Voldemort. But who was the child? Born of the light? The Potters, the Longbottoms and the Weasley's were all expecting.

Time would tell that Harry Potter and Neville Longbottom were _both_ born as the seventh month died. Now, to figure out which one the prophecy meant…again and again revealed? And thrice born before? Lily nearly had three miscarriages due to her part in the war…the Healers had said that the child kept trying to be born too early just before it was actually time…three times in fact. Perhaps Harry, then? Neither can live unless the other survives…did that refer to the "warrior of peace" (who may or may not be referring to Dumbledore), or did that refer to the "darkness"? Too many questions…too much uncertainty.

Dumbledore knew he had to act…and so he took upon his role as the "warrior of peace", fighting and doing whatever it took to bring peace to the land and the people he loved so much, no matter what marks he had to bear on his soul, mind and conscience for it. And so, with a heavy heart, he invited Sibyl Trelawny to be interviewed for the job at the Hogshead, where Dumbledore fed her a potion of his own making in her tea…it worked perfectly.

" _The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches, born as the seventh month dies, to those who've thrice defied him. And he shall have a power the Dark Lord knows not, and he shall be marked as his equal, for neither can live while the other survives…the One with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord will be born as the seventh month dies…"_

The only part that didn't go so well, was Albus' younger brother, trying to be helpful, "caught" Voldemort's spy before young Severus Snape could hear the whole thing. Luckily, Severus apparated away, and the small amount he must have heard seemed to be sufficient. The next night, Severus came crawling back to him, begging Dumbledore to provide his childhood crush with extra protection. So, Dumbledore bound Severus to the little boy and then put the Fidelius over Godric Hollow…and made Peter Pettigrew the Secret Keeper knowing that the young man was a spy for the Dark Lord.

It took everything in Dumbledore to stay away from Godric's Hollow that Halloween. And after he sent Hagrid to fetch the babe, before retrieving Minerva…Albus cried true, bitter tears. It was even harder, after everything Albus had already done to Harry, to leave the infant at the doorstep of a family he _knew_ to hate magic. He knew, deep down that Petunia would abuse this precious…precious little boy. This gem of human life that Albus loved like a grandchild. But the prophecy gave him a duty, and he had to do it. So he laid the tiny thing down at the Dursley's doorstep, and left. Never looking back.

Over the years, Dumbledore forced himself never to check on Harry. For if he did, he knew that he'd never be able to just _leave_ again, leave that beautiful boy…that replica of his favorite students with those horrid creatures. But he had to. He now knew without a doubt that Harry James Potter was the prophecy child. Darkness did indeed "mark" him that night. Harry would forever bear a scar.

And then came the day of Harry's Sorting. Albus sat up in his seat, eagerly to watch the little first years file into the room. It took only a moment to find Harry Potter. And he was overjoyed, if a bit confused, to see that Harry was clinging to the youngest Weasley boy, obviously already fast friends. The first time he had any doubts about his plan came but moments later, when Minerva called out "Potter, Harry". There were murmurings from the seated students, but Harry didn't come forward. He didn't even seem to recognize his own name. Dumbledore felt fear rise up like bile, had the Dursley's harmed the boy's mind so much?

But then Ronald Weasley gave his friend a little push, and Harry seemed to realize it was his turn. Albus chuckled in relief. The boy had just been daydreaming. But, Albus had thought that Harry's sorting would be like his father and mother's. Both Lilly and James had only been on the stool for a moment before the hat shouted out "Gryffindor!" and they'd happily skipped to their seat.

Harry, on the other hand, sat there for many long, agonizing minutes, a glower on his face. Albus relaxed when he heard "Gryffindor!" be called out, but he was still concerned…Harry didn't seem happy with his placement.

None of the other teachers saw anything wrong. Harry was the best student they'd ever had…with the possible exception of Draco Malfoy. Harry Potter helped other people with their homework. Harry Potter was so sweet with Ronald Weasley. Harry Potter made friends with a Muggleborn, and with the Longbottom and Weasley boys.

But Harry Potter also refused his birth name, preferring "Sherlock" and glaring at people whenever they used a different name. All of his papers were marked with a simple "SH' where the name should be, and by Christmas, the other professors (except Snape, bless him) had given in and began solely calling him "Mr. Sherlock". More concerning, "Sherlock" seemed to be good friends with the Slytherin first years. He was charming…but in the way that made other people follow him like sheep. He managed to con the Longbottom boy into throwing a Yule Ball, at which Potter mingled with Light and Dark families a like.

Just like Tom Riddle. As much as Albus hated to admit his own failures…he had failed Harry Potter. Harry James Potter acted like the reincarnation of Tom Riddle.  
Reincarnation…again and again revealed…thrice born before…oh Gods help him. What if…No, it can't be.

Harry couldn't _actually_ be the reincarnation of Tom Riddle? No…no, Harry was born before he died. Albus choked on his lemon drop as something occurred to him. What if that… _thing_ wasn't Harry at all? What if it wasn't the little baby that Albus had held right after birth. What if, that night at Godric's Hollow Harry Potter didn't survive…the curse killing him like it did his parents. Voldemort's body was missing…only the child was there…and Albus remembered Hagrid telling him that the "poor thing were so shocked 'e was, weren't even crying". He wasn't crying. Any normal baby would have been screaming their lungs out.

What if Voldemort was possessing the body of Harry Potter?

A ringing of his wards alerted him to somebody approaching his office. Albus calmed himself, and looked at the "window", waving his wand. The reflection shimmered, and changed to show one Lucius Malfoy waiting by the gargoyle. Albus sighed. Please, Merlin, he couldn't deal with Lucius, not now. But in the end, Albus told the gargoyle to move, and bid Lucius enter.

The blonde aristocratic man sat down without invitation and crossed his legs. "Good-Morning, Albus," he greeted. "I trust you got my owl?"

Albus had to think for a moment. Ah, yes. Lucius had owled him yesterday requesting and audience. "I did, Lord Malfoy. I apologize for not getting back to you in a timely manner, as you can see I'm rather busy" Albus said, sweeping a gesture at the piles of paperwork on his desk. Lucius actually winced in sympathy.

"I do understand, Headmaster Dumbledore, but I find this matter to be of great importance." Albus nodded, signaling for him to continue. "May I be blunt, Headmaster?" Albus was surprised.

"If your Slytherin pride will allow it," Albus gently teased his ex-student.

Lucius allowed a small smile before clearing his throat. "I made a mistake in my youth, and I don't want my son to suffer from it." Albus froze. What Lucius saying what he thought? "Regardless of what you think of me, Headmaster, I love my son. More than anything. And I want him safe. I know you've always held to that the Dark Lord was never truly gone, and recent events have lead me to…similar conclusions." Albus raised an eyebrow, not trusting himself to speak. "You are aware that I visit my child on the occasional Saturdays in the Slytherin common room?"

"Of course," Albus liked to think that he knew everything that went on in his castle.

Lucius opened his mouth again, but then closed it, taking a deep breath through his nose. "Every time I come…" Lucius licked his bottom lip, and Albus thought it was curious, how much emotion he was showing. "My mark darkens further," Lucius rolled of his sleeve, and there was the Dark mark, a faint purpleish color. Directly after the war, Severus' mark had faded to a barely visible grey outline. Dumbledore was shocked that Lucius would bare his mark to him. True, it was well-known that he had it. But Malfoy never flaunted it like this, not when he'd barely gotten out of a sentencing with his paper thin excuse of Imperio. Dumbledore felt dread setting in his stomach. More proof of his theory.

"I want protection for my son," Lucius pressed, dropping his sleeve. "And I have a way to guarantee his loyalty. You know that should the Dark Lord return, I also will have to return to his side, lest my wife suffer his wrath." Albus nodded. "I am also aware that you are Harry Potter's magical guardian."

Albus stopped nodding. "What does Mr. Potter have to do with anything?"

"My son is infatuated with him," Lucius said, his face a blank mask. The Malfoy Lord pulled something out of his pocket, and enlarged it. It was a photo album. Lucius handed it to Albus, who accepted it and began to look through it. Every picture was, indeed, of Harry Potter. Had Draco taken all of these pictures. Albus couldn't hold back a chuckle, despite the seriousness of the situation.

"Ah," Albus sighed. "Young love, there's nothing sweeter."

Lucius ignored his comment. "Draco is forever singing Potter's praises, and they flirted with each other when I came to the train station to pick Draco up. Furthermore, Draco has begged me to allow Potter to come over this summer." Albus froze. "As his magical guardian, you are able to write marriage contracts for your ward. I wish for my son and Mr. Potter to bond." Lucius held up a hand to stop any words from coming out of Albus. "Please, let me explain. My son truly does love Mr. Potter, I can see it plain as day. I also believe Potter is fond of my Draco, so the bond wouldn't be a burden on them, they would be happy. And believe me when I say that Draco's happiness is right beneath his safety on my priority list. Furthermore, as Consort Potter, Draco would not be persecuted as the son of a Death Eater, rather celebrated as the husband of the Boy-Who-Lived. He would have the trust of your people, and the protection that comes with it."

"You aren't the first person to come to me with offers of a Marriage Contract for my ward," Albus informed him.

"I should think not," Lucius said calmly. "Might I ask who the others are?"

"Augusta Longbottom as asked for a bond between Harry and Neville. Molly Weasley has approached about a contract between either Harry and Ron, or Harry and Ginny. Lord Greengrass has two daughters as well, who he suggested. And there are various people from other countries who have asked as well."

"The Longbottom boy is less magically powerful than my Draco, and so chances of producing an heir are very slim, as I'm sure you know. More so than they already are, anyway. While I have heard that Ronald Weasley is a powerful wizard in his own right, he also has a history of supposed mental disorder and physical handicaps. I have more to offer capitol wise than any of the others," Lucius pointed out. "Obviously, my son is the best choice. Not to mention you'd have the alliance of the Malfoys should another war ever arise."

Dumbledore was silent for several beats, then let out a sigh. "I shall consider it most seriously, Lord Malfoy. You have a good argument that I find little fault with. Let us see what happens over the summer, when Harry is at your Manor. That is, assuming you did in fact extend an invitation and young Mr. Potter accepted.  
"Already done," Lucius said, looking excited and relieved at all once…though carefully masked behind a true Slytherin's blank face showing only proper polite interest.

"I shall require an Oath that no harm shall come to him whilst staying under your roof," Albus narrowed his eyes. "I'm sure you know why." Lucius stood at once and extended a hand.

****1047****

Sherlock and John swiftly maneuvered towards the corridor that housed Fluffy. It was Friday, and they had three free periods before they had to be in History Class for the end of the day. Sherlock told John that this was the absolute best time to go. It was during the time when he and John always holed themselves up in their room, usually with John reading on their bed and Sherlock inside his trunk experimenting. No one would question their absence. Furthermore, the teachers were occupied with final lessons before the exams started on Monday, and Dumbledore was in a meeting with Draco's father.

It was perfect.

Sherlock checked the door for wards, finding only a small, nearly hidden one that would alert Dumbledore any time it was opened. Sherlock nearly snorted at how easy it was to take down.

Aeldin and he were having more frequent talks at night as Sherlock lay next to John. Sherlock told Aeldin of his plan, and after an argument that lasted nearly the whole night, Sherlock managed to make Aeldin see how stupid splitting his soul was. And through the course of the night, Sherlock managed to wrangle the word "Horcrux" out of him, along with the data that Aedlin had made five of them. Six, if he counted the one in Sherlock…and seven if you counted the main piece that was inside Quirrell.

Aedlin wouldn't tell him much about Horcruxes, only that the one way he knew how to mend his soul was completely impossible, because he may or may not be a sociopath. "Why would that matter?" Sherlock asked, irritated because Aedlin was purposefully being difficult.

"I have to feel _bad_ about it," Aedlin sneered, looking ridiculous for it, because he still had the form of a disfigured five-year-old.

"Ah, yes. I can see how that would be an issue."

And so, Sherlock had to find a different way to mend Voldemort's soul, that didn't require remorse. And _that_ was after stealing the Stone out from under Dumbledore's nose in his own castle, then possibly confronting the soul piece of Voldemort in his teacher without being murdered on the spot.

It was Christmas.

Meanwhile, the past several nights, Aedlin had been teaching him various things about magic. Sherlock enjoyed it, because this creature that shared his head was obviously a genius on par with himself and his brother. And Aedlin enjoyed it because he'd been bored the past ten years and Sherlock was honestly a marvel of a student.

Which was how Sherlock was now able to extend his magic and unravel the warding on the door without Dumbledore being alerted. "Come, John" Sherlock hissed as his _alohamora_ unlocked the door and he pushed through. Before John had even closed the door, Fluffy had started up a low growl. All three heads showed their saliva-dripping fangs, their ears pulled back on their heads. They were crouched low, as if ready to pounce.

Sherlock pulled his shrunken violin out of his pocket, and flicked his bow out from where he'd apparently stashed it up his sleeve. As soon as Sherlock began to play the first achingly sweet and high note, Fluffy stopped growling. It sat back on its haunches and looked at Sherlock strangely. Then the left head gave a yawn while the other two closed their eyes. John crept over to the trapped door and hefted it open.

"Hurry," John whispered, Sherlock nodded and began stepping towards the trapped door. Sherlock stopped playing and jumped down with John following soon after him. They landed on a soft mass, which bounced slightly as they hit it. "That wasn't too hard," John said, sighing in relief. "What are we sitting on?"

About two feet to his left he heard Sherlock's voice say, " _Lumos_ ", and soon light emitted from the tip of Sherlock's wand. Something moved against John's hand, and John slapped at it. His hand was suddenly stuck where it had struck the mass, which he now saw was a plant.

"Sherlock?"

"Jimsonweed," Sherlock replied.

"What?"

"Datura Stramonium"

"English, please."

"Nightshade"

"Nightshade? Why would there be—" John grunted as a thick vine suddenly wrapped around his waist. "Sherlock!" Another vine entangled his right leg and pulled.

"More accurately, Datura Stramonium in the order of Solanaceae."

"Is it alright to say I don't care?" John gasped as the vines continued to wrap around him. He suddenly realized that he couldn't see Sherlock anymore. "SHERLOCK"

"A vespertine plant that can be used to make a narcotic in the muggle world, however in the wizarding world it's known as Devil's Snare and is used to trap thieves and tear them apart."

"Help me!"

"It's fine, just calm down. Stop moving."

"TELL ME HOW TO GET OUT!"

"I just did; I even gave you two options."

"SHERLOCK!"

John heard Sherlock sigh, the bloody git. "Vespertine, John. An Evening Plant. That's why it left me alone: I had my wand lit. Also, if you just stay still…"

A burst of magic exploded out of John's wand, which was clenched tightly in his right first. The plant caught fire, and suddenly all the vines retracted away from him. An instant later he was falling through air.

" _Arresto Momentum"_ John felt himself slow, like he was falling through water. Then Sherlock was there, helping him to the ground.

John punched his arm.

"What was that for?" Sherlock grouched, rubbing his arm.

"For being no help!"

"I _was_ helping, John! If you stop moving it assumes you're dead and you would've fallen through. Then I would have caught you. The traps are easy, so I'd assume they aren't meant to actually kill, though they _could_ be fatal. Just stall long enough for the Headmaster to get here. But he won't, don't worry. I disabled the alarm."

John just stared at him for a moment, then huffed and stomped towards the door on the far wall. As soon as he opened it, he had to duck to avoid having a bird poke his eye out. Sherlock joined him. "Oh, joy." Sherlock drawled. "Your turn, John."

"What do you mean, my turn?"

Sherlock just handed him a broom, and where the blood hell did he get that? Then he pointed at the door. "I'd can only assume it's locked and we need that key" Sherlock pointed at one of the birds…oh, wait… "to unlock it."

John was still staring at the winged keys. "And how do you know it's that key?"

"Because it's the same metal as the door. Honestly, John."

****1047****

Greg and Mycroft sat staring at the Black Lake, both worried out of their minds. "It is logical that only the two of them go," Mycroft was still talking ten minutes after having sat down beside her. And who would have thought that Mycroft rambled when he was upset? "After all, they're very efficient together, and if we'd all disappeared it would have been more noticeable. And this way we can provide them with an alibi. Did Sherlock take his violin?" Mycroft suddenly gripped her sleeve.  
"I don't know," Greg sighed, yanking her sleeve out of his grip. "How am I supposed to know? They stay in a different dorm than me, so I couldn't have exactly _seen_ Sherlock pocket is violin, now could I have?" Mycroft sighed, fidgeting with his robes.

"How long has it been?"  
"Ten minutes," Greg said, amused. She bumped his shoulder with one of her own. "Stop worrying. It's making you act out of character. You're supposed to be Slytherin's Ice Prince." Mycroft glared at her.

"It's Sherlock that started that moniker, I'm sure of it." Greg snorted, trying to cover up her laugh.

****1047*****

"A Chess Set?"

John and Sherlock stared at the giant game board in amazement. "There are pieces missing," Sherlock said. "The King, the left hand knight and a castle," he noted to himself. "John, stand in the King's spot."

"Why?"

"Because you're rubbish at Chess, and you'll listen to me if you want to cross this room alive."

"What about you?" John asked, obediently standing in position. Sherlock didn't say anything, but he stood in the position of the missing castle, and they watched as the missing knight appeared out of nowhere and mounted his horse's previously empty saddle. Sherlock was quite for a few moments.

"Pawn to E4" The white pawn in the center of the board slowly slid forward, the metal scarping against the concrete of the gameboard as it went. The Black pawn opposite to the board matched him. Sherlock gave a sigh, like he was disappointed. "Queen to H5" he said, sounding bored. The White queen moved, putting Black into Check, prompting the black King into moving forward a single space. Sherlock groaned.

"I thought it'd be more of a challenge, John," Sherlock whined. "But this game's an idiot. Queen to D5, Checkmate." The White Queen walked several spaces, then smashed her chair against the unfortunate Pawn in her way, which cornered the Black King, who threw down his crown. Sherlock stomped off his square and grabbed John's hand, pulling him across the board. "Pathetic," he spat at the now still chess pieces. John could only pat Sherlock's back in sympathy.

But then both of them froze.

In the next room was a troll.

A troll that was unconscious.

"Sherlock," John whispered, pressing closer to his friend as he nervously looked around the dark room. "There's someone else down here with us."

"Obviously."

****1047*****

Severus Snape had just ended his final class for the day, which had been the Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw fourth years. Severus sneered as he waved his wand, vanishing unrecognizable goop from the table, and disposing of unsalvageable potions ingredients. The chairs all righted themselves, tucking into the tables. Used parchment stained with ink flew of their own accord into waste bins and ink spills were mopped up.

He then sighed and began to gather up the few vials of passable potions that had made it onto his desk. A few of the Ravenclaws had done an admirable job, as had two of the Hufflepuff, but the rest were honestly hopeless at it. For the life of him, Severus had no idea why his students found this subject so difficult. All it was was following the directions _which he wrote on the board_.

Severus massaged his temples after placing the vials into his cabinet for later examination. Something was happening today, he just knew it. And it was making it impossible to concentrate. Was one of his Slytherins getting into mischief. Merlin, he hoped not. He didn't want to have to give a detention tonight, he was looking forward to retiring early. Exams started Monday, and they were always stressful. For both him _and_ his students. Severus just knew his classroom would be in shambles by the end of the semester: They always were.

A knock sounded on his door. Severus groaned, but before he could snap at whoever it was to come in, they invited themselves through the door. Headmaster Dumbledore? Severus frowned and turned to more fully face his mentor. "Albus, is something that matter?" Albus looked his age as he heavily sat against one of the tables.

"As a matter of fact," Albus began. "I'm not certain, my friend. I must ask you, has your Dark Mark changed at all of late?" Severus frowned.

"As a matter of fact," Severus said slowly. "It has. It's been growing steadily darker, though it's still fairly light. I was going to bring it up soon, but could never find an opportunity to approach you alone." Albus nodded, like he had been fearing that answer.

"Lucius Malfoy came to my office today" Severus' eyes narrowed. Lucius was an old friend of his. Not to mention the father of his godchild. "He informed me of the same happening to his own mark each time he visited Hogwarts."

"And why would Malfoy offer this information?"

"For Draco's protection apparently?" Severus had nothing to say to that. "Lucius said he fears the coming of his Lord once more and, furthermore, fears what would happen should little Draco follow his father's footsteps. He asked for a marriage contract to be written between Draco Malfoy, and Harry Potter."

If Severus had been drinking something, he would have performed a spectacular spittake, professional Slytherin or not. "Draco and Potter? Is he out of his mind?"

"He is under the impression that little Draco has a crush on Harry, and that Harry returns the sentiment. He even produced a photo album he apparently found in his son's room. I looked at it, it was full of images of Harry. And they do spend a lot of time together. In fact, I've seen both of them go out of their way to talk to the other. It does make sense, I suppose."

"They call each other 'brother'."

"So did Sirius and Remus but…" the cheerful smile on the old man's face fell, as he recalled his old student's betrayal. Severus winced, he may never have cared for his late rival's pet mutts, but he knew his mentor loved them like his own children.

"Noted," Severus continued, deciding to ignore the memories that had arisen. "But what of the Little Weasley? Surely you can see how they treat each other."

Dumbledore smiled again. "It is purely because of little Ronald that I doubt my own theory."

"Of?" Severus raised an eyebrow. Dumbledore took a steadying breath, then launched into a detailed explanation of why exactly, he feared that Harry James Potter was dead, and the boy wandering around was a corpse possessed by the dead Dark Lord of the previous generation. As outlandish as it was…it did make sense in a way. Even still, Severus had to choke back a laugh: it would never do for someone of his reputation to lose composure in such a way.

"Albus," Severus said exasperated. "Have you ever _for a moment_ watched the Potter boy?" Albus frowned at him. "I can see how, on the outside, you can draw parallels. Potter is well liked, popular, smart, charming in his own blasted way, and _incredibly_ possessive. But that's where they end. Potter is also completely oblivious, constantly bored and consistently rude. In fact, he mended House relations due to the sole fact that he _couldn't care less_. He may be a prodigy or a genius, but he certainly doesn't try in class. In fact, he has the lowest score in Potions at the moment than I have seen in all my years of teaching. He hasn't turned in a single essay, potion or even _tried_ brewing the proper potions until I threatened the Little Weasley on Potter's behalf. I've only _just_ gotten him to stop blowing things up."

Albus laughed a bit. "Yes, the other professors have come to me with similar complaints."

"You told me Tom Riddle had no true friends in school, only followers. But Albus, I ask you just _watch_ the way Weasley, Potter and Granger act to each other, even the _other_ Gryffindors and beyond that. Not to mention my godson. Potter and Riddle couldn't be more different."

Albus gave a little sigh. "Severus…I'm not sure what this school would do without you."

Severus snorted, turning away to hide his face. "With Longbottom, Finnegan and Potter here at once? It wouldn't even be standing."

*****1047*****

The logic puzzle was most certainly put there by one Professor Snape. Sherlock felt his respect for the man rise as he glanced over the parchment that held the riddle, and then he set about to sniffing the potions. "Danger lies before you," John read. "While safety lies behind. Two of us will help you, whichever you would find—"

"Drink" Sherlock said, tossing John the smallest bottle, third from the right end. John shook the bottle and frowned at his best friend. There was only enough for one gulp. John was about to ask why _he_ would be the one to drink the potion, when Sherlock pushed his hand holding the bottle towards his mouth. "Trust me, John," Sherlock told him. John sighed, taking the cork off the vial and tossing it back. As soon as he drank it, he felt something like ice water running under his skin.

"What about you?" John asked. But Sherlock only stepped forward, as if to embrace him. Confused, John raised his arms to put them around Sherlock's familiar frame. But then Sherlock rammed into him. Hard. Sending them both through the fire that had been blocking the exit, Sherlock using John as a human shield against the flames.

"You moron!" John smacked Sherlock shoulder, which was shaking with his giggles. "You could have burns yourself."

"But I didn't, so that's now irrelevant."

"Irrelevant?" John asked in disbelief. "You…" John trailed off as he followed Sherlock now very interested gaze across the room, to the figure standing in front of a familiar mirror, watching them.


	16. Like Pirates

**Thank you all so much for your continued support.**

 **Guest: 1047 is a Batman reference. My first fandom I was involved (read: obsessed) in was Batman. I loved everything Batman. And while the actual date of his parents' murder is different depending on the comic, it's generally accepted that it happened at 10:47 pm. Also, back when Bruce hid the cave behind an old grandfather clock, the secret entrance could be accessed by turning the hands into the 10:47 position. Also, it's my belief that he also uses it as his unlock key for his mobile phone. Lol, but that last part's just me. Hope that explained things! Yeah….it has nothing to do with Sherlock at all….lol**

 **Lol, thank you all for the attention you've given this story. I love you all. Also, I wanted to clear up one thing because several people expressed concern to me. In the ACTUAL prophecy, one of the lines go "** ** _Joined by a warrior of peace by his side, for neither can live unless the other survives_** **" Note that this is different from the cannon prophecy, which said "** ** _For neither can live_** **While** _ **the other survives."**_ **Basically, this prophecy, unlike cannon, does not foresee any deaths. You're welcome.**

 **May the gods be ever in your favor,**

 **~James**

Ignotius furrowed his brow as he bent low over his parchment, gripping his quill with fingers so tight his knuckles were turning white. Around him were sounds of life. His seven, beautiful children played about the house he shared with his precious wife, who was currently cooing to their youngest son while tending to whatever she was making for supper. Accalia occasionally threw a worried look over her shoulder at him, but Ignotius could only smile.

He hated worrying her, but this had to be done. Both of his brothers were now dead, and as much as Ignotius had hated their meddling in his affairs, he had still loved them in the way little brothers do. Now, with Cadmus gone he truly had no one left but his wife and children. Not that he really needed more, but even still. Ignotius rose from his seat, running his hands through his seven-year-old's, Augustus', curly hair. He embraced his wife from behind, kissing her cheek chastely. Accalia leaned into him, humming.

"I must go and gather some supplies for a ritual," he informed her quietly. He felt her shoulders fall and he inwardly winced. He'd been disappearing a lot lately, with little to no explanation. But it needed to be done, and so he steeled himself and turned her about so that he could kiss her temple. "I'll be back soon," Ignotius said quietly, brushing a stray blonde strand away from her frowning brow.

"You better be," she said in mock severity, though he could see the unease in her guileless blue eyes. "Or I'm throwing your meal to the dogs."

Ignotius smiled at her. "Before dark," he promised.

Then he set about double checking he had all of his things: his wand secured in his sheath on his arm, his good cloak to keep out the chill he'd be walking into, his protective amulets and various magical items tucked away in his many pockets.

"Be safe," Accalia called out as he exited his home. "And be careful!" He paused to caress her face, then peck her frown.

"I love you," he'd only say.

He strode out to their stables as clicked his tongue as he opened the gate. Immediately, his faithful hippogriff, Phylla, trotted over to him, tossing her head. He petted her flank, then began to saddle her. Within minutes he was mounted and Phylla was galloping out of her pen, master astride, wings spread out. A few mighty flaps and they were airborne, souring parallel with the clouds. It was an exhilarating feeling. Or so Accalia always said. Personally, Ignotius was just trying not to throw up all over Phylla's feathers.

For nearly three hours he flew, until his thighs were beginning to become stiff. Finally, the air around him seemed to become unbearable frigid all at once. With nary a word, Ignotius steered Phylla down towards the earth, among frost covered trees.

Hopefully, the spell he'd been working on would work. Ignotius alighted, stepping lightly on the dead leaves and twigs that litter the ground, making his steps creak and crack every time he put his boots down. He held his wand tightly in his hand, senses on high alert. Then he felt his stomach drop down to his knees. The hairs on his neck were raised, and the chill was more determined than ever.

Ignotius spun around to face the demon, the wraith, the ghoul of despair that had come to devour him. " _Clamabo fortisaspiciam,"_ he chanted, desperately summoning up an image of his wife, his children. _"Expectabo patronus!"_ A small quadruped creature leaped from his wand and hissed at the wraith. " _Exmundabit_!" The light creature attacked the wraith, tearing into its unholy form. The tormentor of souls howled in pain. Ignotius couldn't help but smile at the sight of the small, usually furred creature destroying such a monstrosity. The little thing always reminded him of his wife.

Ignotius and his spell animal didn't cease their attack until the monster was nothing more than wispy shreds of cloth, which Ignotius picked up and carefully stored in one of his pockets. Then he knelt and brushed his hand over the back of the small animal he had summoned before all at once, it dissipated.

Ignotius looked up at the sky and cursed.

His wife was going to be livid.

***1047***

Tom Riddle had been staring at this cursed mirror for many, many nights now, through the eyes of his follower. According to his follower, Quirenus saw naught but his master, full and whole once again. Though occasionally Tom could see the truth: Quirenus holding his dead wife and daughter. And yet most of the time, Tom could see nothing at all. Not even his own reflection.

It baffled him, why would it show the fantasy that Tom despised above all (him existing no more), when according to every other source, it was supposed to show your hearts deepest desire. Quirrell fidgeted, stretching his fingers and shifting from one foot to the other. Inwardly, Tom sighed. He might as well have his host retire for the night, they would learn nothing else.

Of course, it was then that they heard voices coming from the nearest chamber. "Danger lies before you, while danger lies behind…" a young voice was reading Severus' poem out loud. The voice…ah, it was the little Weasley.

"Drink" commanded a second voice, interrupting Weasley. Potter.

"What about you?"

"Trust me" A moment later, the two little boys came tumbling through the fire. Quirrell couldn't help but stare in shock at the arguing couple. The boys slowly looked up, making eye contact with them.

"Knew it." Said Potter.

"I know, git," replied Weasley.

"B-boys," stuttered out Tom's host, "Wh-wh-what a s—" Sherlock interrupted him.

"Stop stuttering. I know it's just a front, and it's an annoying one at that. So either speak normally or shut up and let your master talk," the boy snapped. The little blonde elbowed Potter in the side.

Quirrell's face stopped twitching. "I confess, boys, I'm a little surprised. I'd have thought you'd suspect Severus."

"Why?" scoffed Sherlock. " _because he's a meanie_?" he mocked in a babyish voice. Quirrell's eyes narrowed. He snapped his fingers and suddenly, ropes bound both of the children tightly. Still, neither of them looked very alarmed: the Weasley looked determine, while Potter simply continued to look amused.

"Be quiet, I must examine this mirror."

"It's how you get the stone, isn't it? How though? Does it reveal the place?" Then Potter's eyes widened. "Or _is_ it the place?" Tom inwardly smirked. The boy was definitely bright, he could prove himself useful. Quirrell, though, only scowled.

"Silence!" he cried. "A child such as yourself could not possibly…"

"Let me speak to them" Voldemort commanded his follower. "Face to face".

"But, but my Lord," spluttered Quirrell. "You are not strong enough."

Voldemort felt anger, but the brushed it aside abruptly. "I am strong enough for this." And soon he could feel the thick folds of fabric fall away from the deformed thing that now acted as his face. He could see the disgust and intrigue in both boy's faces. "Yess, see what I have become?" he asked. "Mere shadow and vapor. And yet, I was once more powerful than even your precious headmaster. Even he feared my presence. It wasn't until _you_ " he looked directly at Potter. "that I was reduced to such indignity. And yet, with the power of the stone, I may become again what I once was. Tom used Quirrell's magic and released Potter, though he kept Weasley bound. "Come, and look into the mirror. If you aid me, you will be rewarded."

"And why should I?" asked the cheeky little brat, who was sitting there on the floor playing with his friend's hair, smirking. Quirrell growled, though Voldemort felt a notch of respect for the little wizard. Hardened Aurors have been known to faint on the spot in his presence. "What could you possibly give me that I don't have already? Power? Ha. You're no better than magical headlice right now. Money? I'm the second richest person in the wizarding world. Fame? I'm already a celebrity. So tell me, Dark Lord. What do you have that I might want?"

"I could simply kill you," Voldemort mused.

The boy snorted. "Sure. You tried that before, how'd that work out for you?"

"Immortality is the prize I've sought since I was younger than you," Voldemort told the boy, drawing closer (though it was slightly awkward, because to do so, he had to force Quirrell to walk backwards). "Surely even a child such as you can appreciate such a thing. Wouldn't you like to live forever, _Sherlock_?"

Sherlock sighed and stood, dusting off the seat of his pants. "Good boy," Voldemort mock praised him, earning a glare from the First Year. "Now, look into the mirror. Tell me what you see."

The child rolled his eyes, but obediently walked to stand in front of the mirror. "I see me and John sitting in a room in the tower of a castle." The boy said, his face blank. But Voldemort was well used to Slytherin masks of all sorts. He could see the smirk fighting for freedom on his lips.

" _Liar_ " Voldemort hissed.

****( **Sherlock'sPOV)** *****

He watched as his DADA teacher slowly turned around, whilst unwinding the turban from his head. Sherlock felt John tense against his bonds. Where the back of Quirrell's head should be, was a second, rather hideous, face. Alarm rose up in him. Oh, Merlin. Is that what would happen to _him_ if Sherlock didn't get Aedlin out of his head?

He barely felt it when the ropes fell away from him, barely registering what snake-face wanted. "And why should I?" Sherlock snarked at him, and was slightly relieved to see amusement in Voldemort's eyes. Perhaps Sherlock had been mistaken? Perhaps the main piece of Voldemort was _not_ as insane as he'd originally feared.

Eventually, Sherlock found himself standing in front of the mirror. Like before, he saw himself and John, standing side by side. And yet, this time he had John appeared to be around early twenties, and their fingers were intertwined. John grinned at him and held up his hand to reveal a small, red rock, which he placed in Sherlock's inside pocket.

"I see me and John sitting in a room in the tower of a castle."

" _Liar_ " And then the vision shattered, an suddenly Voldemort was standing right behind him, (snake-face forwards, Quirrell was still standing backwards to allow his Lord more control). Sherlock readied his hand to flick his wand out of his sleeve, but stopped when he saw the expression on Voldemort's face.

Shock. And horror.

"Godric" Voldemort gasped.

"What?" Sherlock frowned. Voldemort choked and stumbled.

"My Lord?" asked Quirrell in alarm.

Voldemort stumbled again, and Sherlock reached out instinctively. But the moment that Sherlock touched the skin of his wrist, a horrible smell of burning flesh (which three out of four of the wizards in the room were very familiar with) filled the air. Quirrell began to scream, he whirled around and wrapped his hands around Sherlock's tiny throat, and squeezed. Both John and Voldemort called for him to cease what he was doing, but by the Quirrell's hands and been burned away until there was nothing left but stumps.

Moments later, and their professor had crumbled away to blackened dust.

The ropes fell away from John, and he ran over to Sherlock, who was gasping, rubbing his sore throat. "Are you alright? Let me see." Sherlock let his friend pock and prod until he was satisfied that there was no lasting damage. Then, they simply sat there in silence looking anywhere but at the pile of ash and robes.

"Is it alright if I admit I have no idea what just happened?" John eventually asked. Sherlock laughed, once, then steepled his fingers. "What did you do to him?" John aske in a quiet voice.

"I don't know, John." Sherlock said quietly. "But we should get out of here, before someone finds us." He stood, then whipped out his wand. Before John could ask him what he was doing, Sherlock had already shrunk down the mirror of Erised and stuck it in his pocket. Then he grabbed John's hand.

Getting out was easier than coming back in. The only hard part being the Devils Snare. In the end, John kept a fire going around him while Sherlock levitated him up, then John brought Sherlock up after him while playing the violin. It was hard to believe they had only been down there for an hour and a half. It felt like so much longer.

"Let's find Greg and Mycroft," John panted, after they ran out of Fluffy's room. "I'm sure they're worried." Sherlock only grumbled a little bit as John dragged him to the Gryffindor common room.  
"Where have you two been?" Percy squawked as soon as they entered. "Your robes are filthy!" he scurried over the them and began cleaning them up with his wand. "Oh, good gracious," Percy scowled.

"We were exploring," Sherlock said with wide eyes, "like pirates." And the expression on his face was so adorable that Percy completely forgot about being worried and simply cooed at him.

"Did you find any"

"Treasure, captain?" asked the twins with matching grins.

Sherlock took something out of his pocket. "I found a shiny rock." The upperclassmen all laughed and whispered about how cute "ickle firsties" are, while John stood there wondering where the heck it came from.

****1047*****

 **I'm sorry this is way shorter than normal, it's just this was really hard for me to write for some reason. Everything I wrote just turned out so horrible, and so I'm just going to post what I have, now, and work on it more later.**


	17. Summer and Separation

**Sorry it's been a while, college started and can I just say** ** _I HATE BIOLOGY!_** **I'm not even sure why I have to take it, I mean, I'm a Writing Major….*sweatdrop*.**

 **IAmASLythercal: I'm sorry you don't like the ships I chose, but each to their own, you know? But don't worry, their relationship will be very innocent for a while yet. And, because I am Asexual, I will probably never write any smut in this story. I tried once by request of a friend for another story…and…it was…*cough* weird and uncomfortable for everyone involved. Like. Blech.**

 **sesshys lover: I'm glad you like my story! It's always nice to get new readers.**

 **Alec Castairs: Your review made me happy.**

 **NyxLafayette: Sherlock came to me the other day and reprimanded me for my "unforgivable laziness". Soon after, we together found this chapter hiding in the back of my brain underneath the first season of The Series of Unfortunate Events. (Which, btw, we both agree is amazing. XD)**

 **Harriverse: It's reviewers like you that make me able to keep writing. Thank you so much for your support.**

 **Guest: Funny story, I actually posted that last chapter right before watching The Final Problem. I just knew that Sherlock liked pirates from Mycroft's comments in previous episodes. XD**

 **Thank you everyone for your reviews, I'm sorry I couldn't reply to them all! I love reading them, and they make me so happy. I've had quite a few people ask me about Godric, and let me just give you guys one hint:**

 **There is a recurring** ** _Thing_** **that is brought up multiple times. Once you figure that out, the rest should be easy peasey. Lol. Hope you Review or PM me if you have any complaints, compliments, comments, suggestions, ideas or questions! I love hearing from you! (And it'd be super awesome if I eventually got 1 thousand reviews. It shouldn't be that hard, I mean, if everyone reading this just reviews once, it should happen pretty much right away….)**

 **LOL May the gods be ever in your favor!**

 **~James**

It was almost funny how normal the day was. The Gryffindors chased each other around the grassy lawn, screeching and hollering like animals. The Ravenclaws debated philosophy in corridors or told riddles in corners or studied in the library. The Hufflepuffs sat in little clicks gossiping or working on homework. The Slytherins played chess or politics, while pretending to ignore all the people they deemed beneath them. The Professors were hiding from the students in their offices and Peeves was flooding the seventh floor hallway. All in all, it was just a regular weekend at Hogwarts, School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.

One would never have guessed that just under a half an hour ago, one of the teachers died a horrible death. Or that two of their students now held the key to eternal life. In fact, the whole situation was so absurd that John found it hard to keep in his giggles, which was a bit not good, concerning that his best friend had basically just committed man-slaughter (A word which here means: accidentally vaporized his DADA professor).

Sherlock even seemed a little disturbed as he sat on his bed, staring at his "shiny rock". "How does the elixir even come out?" he asked eventually. "Do you pour water over it into a cup, having some sort of magical essence blend with the water? Does the stone actually _produce_ the elixir in some way? I see no opening where it might pour out."

John sat next to him. "Maybe you soak it in a bowl, and it'll turn the water into elixir. Sort of like how touching it to lead will turn it into gold."

"The only reason why that particular property is at all worth mentioning is because of the Treaty at the end of the Fourth Goblin War, you know that right?"

"….no?"

"Goblins made the Wizards swear and unbreakable blanketing oath to never conjure or otherwise produce gold. Goblins have complete authority over all Wizarding Gold, which is why they now run the banks. Because of this, there is a magical restriction that makes it impossible to, for example, transfigure my pillow into a gold block. The Philosopher's Stone some how get's around that Law."

"Have you tested it yet?" John asked. Sherlock shook his head. He took out his wand and summoned a quill from his school bag. With a muttered spell, the feathery fibers turned into metal strands. That done, Sherlock pressed the stone to it. John couldn't help the grin that grew when the grey feather slowly began shimmering a gold color. John picked it up. "It's heavy" he noted.

Sherlock snorted. "It's gold, John. What did you expect?" John gave him a sort of smile.

"THERE YOU ARE!" Gremione cried, throwing open the door to their dorm. Mycroft was right behind her. "It's about time," she huffed wrapping her arms around Sherlock's boney shoulders. "Next time, actually come find us instead up sending a paper airplane."

"I had first attempted to sent a patronus," Sherlock grumbled, "but for some reason the vapor refused to take corporeal form." Mycroft awkwardly patted his little brother's shoulder.

"It's a rather complex spell," Mycroft informed him. "Only approxamatly .02% of all wizards can actually perform the spell, and even then it usually takes years of practice."

"Neither of my parents can," John said. "But my brother, Charlie, can. His takes the form of a dragon, as you could have probably guessed. Bill's close though."

"I'll have it mastered by fall," Sherlock said stubbornly. John smiled fondly at him. "By the way, Quirrell is dead."

This rather casually said sentence was met by stunned silence by Mycroft and a dramatic gasp from Gremione. "Was it _You-Know-Who_?"

It probably says something a bit not good that Sherlock was first confused as to why Greg was bringing up Mary, but then Sherlock remembered the wizard's strange insistence on calling Voldemort by that vague moniker. "In a way," Sherlock said. "Voldemort was possessing Quirrell, and I suppose whatever saved me the night of Halloween ten years ago tried to save me once more, however unnecessarily."  
"What do you mean?"

"I mean there's some sort of protective magic, most likely my mother's, woven into my own aura. As soon as I touched Quirrell's skin, which was soaked in extremely dark magic, while he was angry, the protective magic acted up. It completely consumed him. He's nothing but ashes now."

There was an awkward pause of silence. "So…" Gremione started, trying to break the quiet. "You're a light wizard then? I would have thought you were Dark from your personality." Sherlock gave her an acknowledging nod.

"Personality is only part of what determines your magical affinity. Mostly it comes from ancestry. As a Muggleborn, Greg, your personality is the main determining factor. However, both of my parents were extremely Light in nature. Therefore, I am a Light wizard, though any child I may have would have a greater possibility of being a Dark affiliated witch or wizard because of my semi-Dark personality. Does that make sense?"

"No," said Gremione plainly. "If that's true, why the heck am I Dark?"

*****1047********

It had been some months since Aeldin had simply been a misshapen mass of black magic. Now, he appeared to be a nine or ten-year-old boy with a slightly translucent body and rather smoky hair. He'd also learned by this time to manipulate Sherlock's mind palace enough that his small room was now equipped with two comfortable chairs, a book shelf full of Sherlock's memories (Though only from this life so many of the books were rather dull), and picture frames depicting…well, they mainly showed John.

Currently, Aeldin was sitting in one of the chairs with a rather large book filled with stories of Sherlock accidental (actually accidental) magic. Such as the time accidently turned Dudley into a shrub. Or that other time he somehow banished Piers across town. Or again when he withered all of Petunia's roses. Apparently, Aeldin found these memories humorous, because when Sherlock opened the door the the improving mind space, the ex-Dark-Lord was quietly chuckling to himself.

"I'm yet to understand just how you came to the conclusion that you and Malfoy are brothers, but it's fairly obviously that you're nearly as powerful as I was at your age. Though, and it's painful to admit this, but you've a rather impressive amount of control for one so young. My magic was a bit too much…and rather _explosive_ at times." Aeldin informed him as Sherlock took his seat across from him.

"In the books I've found on Occlumency, many wizards say that an organized mind helped with an overpowered magical core or underused body" Sherlock replied. "Apparenlty, I'm a natural Occlumens, so that helps I suppose." Sherlock peered at the book. "Is that all you've been doing?" he asked. "Snooping into my life?"

"What else _is_ there," the shadow boy asked. "And before you ask again: _no I don't want to learn the violin_."

"Fine," Sherlock pouted. "Be bored. See if I care." Aeldin rolled his eyes and put aside the book.

"How has your warding been coming along?" he asked with the same tone Mycroft used to get when asking Sherlock if he'd managed to "stay clean". "I trust you've been practicing?"

"Of course," Sherlock waved his hand. "I warded a box then had my brother test it; it was satisfactory. Furthermore, I broke into the third floor corridor where Dumbledore was keeping the Philosopher's Stone after successfully dismantling an alarm ward."

"Did you get the stone?"

"Yes, and you were there, too. The other you. That used to be in Quirrell."

"Used to be?"

"I may or may not have accidentally vaporized him."

"…"

"Yes that was my reaction as well."

"What do you plan on doing with the stone?" Aeldin sighed, as if resigning himself to the fact that he was stuck in the head of a boy who defied all logic and magical laws.

"Aside from turning all of John's things into gold? I don't know. I'm going to wait on actually using the stone for my own immortality until I'm around the age of twenty-three, as I seem to remember that being a good year for me. Physically, anyway."

"What are you talking about?" Aeldin raised his eyebrows suspiciously.

"Conquering the world with my army of John clones. Do keep up."

"You're so immature," Aeldin sighed. "And what of the soul piece that had been in Quirrell? Since your professor wasn't an actual Horcrux, I wonder if the soul piece was destroyed or not."

"I don't think it was, after all. It didn't appear to have, ahem, settled all that well."

"How so?"

"It was sticking out a bit."

It was obvious from Aeldin's face that he had no idea what Sherlock was talking about. But then he massaged his temples with his hands, much like Mycroft used to do when Sherlock replaced all of his disgusting health food with cake and cookies. "Did he say anything about using the stone to regenerate himself?"

"You mean yourself?"

"Just answer the question."

"He might have; I wasn't really paying attention. I'll ask my John later."

"…*sigh*…Just in case, I've thought of a book that might have the answer…"

****1047****

Narcissa paced their bedroom floor, absolutely livid with her husband. "I thought we agreed that we would be using his friendships to add to our own side of the war!" She screeched, scaring several House Elves who had been trying to clean up the debris from Narcissa's earlier tantrum, when she first found out about the contract Lucius had nearly managed to secure for their son. "Not hand over my baby to _DUMBLEDORE_!"

"I do agree," Lucius said calmly. "I only told Dumbledore what I did to secure the contract. And so long as the boys get along this summer and Potter returns to Hogwarts in the fall unscathed, that contract is as good as ours. And with it, the _Boy-Who-Lived_. Think, Narcissa: the boy is neglected, perhaps abused by his relatives who he has been with since infancy. We would be the first loving home the child has ever known. He'd come to think of us as his parents, and we'd raise him in ways fitting of a pureblood. And should the time come that our Lord returns, we would have not one, but two ready and willing sons for his service."

Narcissa stopped pacing, instead just glaring at her husband, arms crossed. "And if it backfires?" she snapped. "If Draco is drawn to Dumbledore through his husband?"

"He won't be," Lucius assured her. "Of this I am certain. You heard the way he condemned those filthy muggles for their treatment of his friend. And I can hardly imagine that the Potter boy has much faith in Dumbledore, with him knowing that it was the good headmaster who placed him with them in the first place."

Narcissa seemed to be calming down, but at the same time she was still obviously tense with worry. "I will allow the child here," she exhaled. "I wanted that anyway. But as for the marriage contract, do we even know if Potter is capable of bearing? I know that our Draco isn't! I may be a Black by birth, but I've no desire to see the Malfoy line dwindle away because of your schemes. Enough of the Pureblood lines have fallen, I don't want our names to one day be listed among them."

"I…will have him tested."

***1047***

The end of the year feast out did every meal John and Sherlock had had in the Great Hall yet. There were banners depicting the four Hogwarts mascots and the gem scales that were used to measure House Points were sat in front of the Professor Table. Gryffindor and Slytherin were both thrumming with energy. It was hard to tell which gems there were more of: rubies or emeralds.

Sherlock had already started stacking cookies into a miniature leaning tower of pisa with the hand that wasn't squeezing John's under the table, ignoring Dumbledore's speech expressing his sorrow over Professor Quirrell's "unexpected departure". Sherlock and Mycroft, the psychos, had found it hilarious that no one even noticed he was missing until three days later at his next class, which happened to be the Gryffindor first years.

The students had filed in, chatting and joking like usual after seeing that the Professor was nowhere in sight. John and Gremione had been fidgeting uncomfortably, being aware of Quirrell's fate. As the minutes passed by with no sign of adult supervision, the students got gradually louder and Sherlock got increasingly more bored. Until, eventually, the boy genius had stood up and strode over to the desk declaring, "Turn in your text books to page 71, Quirrell's explanation of the _Mr̥tyu Niẏati_ curse was, at best, pathetic…" and he continued like that, with his year mates obligingly obeying, until Madam Hooch stuck her head in, having wondered why she didn't hear the Professor's stutter.

Dumbledore had "filled in" for Quirrell for the last few weeks, with Snape occasionally coming in when the headmaster was busy. Though, usually Dumbledore let Sherlock lead the class, sitting back and observing the Boy-Who-Lived with a strange intensity that made John want to grab Sherlock and run. This man was nothing like the kind person who had tried to help John with his depression some time ago.

"…And so, in fourth place" Dumbledore finally began to announce the points, bringing John attention back to the feast. "Is Ravenclaw with 287 points!" There were some applause but it was halfhearted at best and John saw Sherlock smirk. They had heard from older kids that Ravenclaw almost always got most of their points from answering questions in classes, and usually got third or second place. But with Greg, Sherlock and Mycroft attending, the standard had been raised higher for everyone, which resulted in fewer points being given away in class. Furthermore, it wasn't uncommon for a young Ravenclaw to break down and throw something, resulting in a deduction of points, after realizing that they hadn't made the top five or ten of their year. "In third place is Hufflepuff with 302 points!" The yellow table cheered. They had pulled ahead with their usual method of working hard to be the nicest house in the school. The Hufflepuffs were almost as efficient as Sherlock at promoting House unity. "And in first place…" Dumbledore paused with a playful smile. "With and _astounding_ 689 points, is Gryffindor! With Slytherin a close second at 687!" There were boos mixed in with the cheering, but the Gryffindors were on their feet screaming so it was hard for John to hear them.

John almost felt a little pity for Mycroft, who had gathered in a large amount of the points himself. But Gryffindor had Sherlock _and John and Greg_ , who were both far more dedicated and mature than the majority of their house. Not only that, but Professor Binns liked giving Sherlock ten or twenty points after every lesson, which nullified any that Snape took away from him in class for not participating to the fullest of his abilities.

"Next year, let's make it a thousand!" said Dean eagerly. "With the three of you, it's possible! Especially if John keeps playing for Gryffindor, we'll win the cup next year as well!"

****1047*****

John woke, a feeling of dread already settled firmly in his gut. He kept his eyes shut, hoping that he could prevent the day from happening if he just didn't move. He turned his face, burying his nose in the curly hair that lay next to him on his pillow. Sherlock was already awake, reading a book. John squeezed his best friend a little tighter and sighed.

The last day of term was yesterday. Today, they would be leaving for home. And while John somewhat missed the Burrow and the members of his family who weren't at Hogwarts with him, John would miss Sherlock infinitely more. It was already settled, much to Molly Weasley and John's disappointment, that Sherlock would be staying with the Malfoy's this summer. Of course, Draco had insisted that John was allowed over whenever. And there was always the get together at Colin's to 'look forward to', but for the most part they would be on opposite sides of the country.

"You'll be over often, so there's no point in getting depressed, John." John finally opened his eyes. Sherlock put his book to the side and pushed down the comforter that had been covering them both. "I've already decided that we'll be going to Neville's this Saturday."

"Really?" asked Neville happily. "Great! I'll tell Gran."

"I wanna come, too!"

"I'm invited, right Nev?"

While the other boys begged and pleaded for their own invitations, which the happily confused Neville readily gave, John only slid off his side of their bed and began to pull his casual robes from his trunk (which was now, for some reason, holding a great number of Sherlock's clothing and books—he'd have to sort that out later). Sherlock pulled the jumper John was holding out of his hands. "Stop"

"I need to get dressed, Sherlock."

"No. Stop with the…the…that."

"And the award for Most Articulate Genius goes too…"

"That. Stop that."

"I'm not doing anything." Sherlock blew a lock of hair out of his face, before wrapping his arms around John's neck in an awkward sort of hug.

"Why don't you just ask your parents if you can stay with my brother and I as well?" Sherlock asked. "They live in a mansion, John. There's more than enough room for you."

"I can't do that to my parents," John knuckled the morning grit out of his eyes. "They can't stand the Malfoy's, you know that. Plus, I haven't seen them all year. I'd be a bit not good for me to choose to spend the summer away from them as well. Especially after all they're done for me."

"We'll still see each other often. It'll be no worse than when…" Sherlock trailed off, finding himself once again thinking of _You-Know-Who_. "then when we didn't live together." He finished a bit lamely, but confident that John understood what he meant. John gave a slow nod, still not really looking at Sherlock, who handed him back his clothes. After John disappeared into the bathroom to get ready for the day, Colin bounded over to him.  
"Both of you are still coming to my party, right Sherlock?" he asked. "I can't wait! I didn't really have many friends before Hogwarts—too weird, you know. So my parties never had many people before. But now, there'll be almost twenty people coming! I'm so excited!" the smaller boy was practically bouncing up and down.  
"I'm still intending on coming," Sherlock said indulgently. "John as well, I believe. It's unlike him to change his mind.

***1047***

All of the Gryffindor first years squeezed into one of the larger compartments. The nine of them loudly celebrated the end of their year the entire way home, while repeatedly promising to write and visit. "You better!" warned Greg. "I don't know if I'll be able to survive a whole summer without magic."

"We should meet together at Diagon Alley," said Seamus. "There's an amazing ice cream parlor there, we could get together for lunch sometime."

"And there's an indoor Quidditch pitch in Levenham," Neville said. "I used to go there with Ernie from Hufflepuff, before Hogwarts. It'd be nice to go again. We all could!"

When the candy trolley came by and Sherlock produced a large bag of gold, the cry of joy that went up was loud enough to draw a concerned Percy to their compartment. "Ronnie, do remember that if you eat too many sweets you'll get a stomach ache," he warned his little brother after he saw the mountain of candy that Sherlock's friends had bought with his money.

"I brought real food from Hogwarts to feed him too. Stop worrying Percy," Sherlock looked irritated at Percy insinuating that he wasn't taking good enough care of his John. Percy bit his lip, wanting to say more but deciding to let them be.

****1047****

It was hard to focus. Even harder than it had been the last several months when he'd been stuck inside the head of his follower. There was only pain, horrible pain that would have had him screaming in agony if he'd had a body. But as it were, there was nothing he could do but keep moving as if the pain was chasing him.

****1047****

Antioch was a prodigy and wandless magicks. From the time he was a very young boy, he had so great control over his magical core that he was able to wandlessly and wordlessly conjure, not summon but conjure, a living breathing dragon infant to amuse his younger brothers. His parents were impressed and pleased, and immediately contacted the most prominent names in magic, including Myrddin Wyllt and Alburich Durinson. The day he turned five, Antioch was shipped across the sea to a place where the Necromancer Alburich taught him all the secrets of his trade. For twenty years, Antioch stayed there with minimal contact with his family. When he returned, he was even more powerful than before, with a thirst for new experiences. After teaching his younger brothers the basics and leaving them with the tools to teach themselves more, he left to travel the world.

His journeying brought him to a village where a wand maker lived, who was said to produce unbeatable wands. Antioch, thinking it humorous for someone such as he, so gifted in the art of wandless necromancy, decided to apprentice himself to the man. His employer was a vain and prideful man. But while his wands were unparalleled in quality, he had yet to create one so powerful that none could conquer it.

One day, the wand maker sat outside carving a strip of holly wood away from the bough, when he saw two young men approach his apprentice. They embraced warmly and with many tears, and the wand maker understood that they had not seen each other for a long while. It was not many minutes after that, that the youngest challenged his older brother to a mock duel—without wands. Challenge accepted, the power that was thrown about was unparalleled by anything the wand maker had ever seen produced by one of his creations.

Soon, every young witch and wizard lined up to challenge the young apprentice; they with their wands, and Antioch with only his hands. And one by one they were defeated with little to no effort from the wand apprentice.

A fortnight passed, and the wand maker and his apprentice went looking for bowtruckle infested trees that might be harvested for wand wood. Antioch had grown to see the wand maker as an older brother, chatting happily and carelessly as he collected the wood. But the wand maker had long ago been taken by jealousy, and as Antioch reached up to collect a bough of elderwood, the wand maker drew his wand. In a moment, Antioch's head rolled across the forest floor, his body and blood hitting the base of the old tree.

Without remorse, the wand maker cut open the young man's chest and drew out his heartstrings. With bloody hands and calloused conscience, he braided them together as the elder tree drank up the young man's blood.

When he next returned from out of the woods three days later, he spun a tragic tale of how poor Antioch had been murdered by a band of wizards jealous of his power. The town believed him and mourned the loss. But his grieving brothers were suspicious. Being necromancers in their own right, they detected their brother's aura very close every time they visited the wand maker. But it wasn't until many months later when the wand maker boasted his greatest achievement—a truly unbeatable wand—that they discovered its source.

The wand maker, a previously mediocre duelist, bested the entire town with his wand save for the two remaining brothers who refused to participate. That night, the middle brother crept into the wand maker's home and slit his throat, claiming the wand as his own. He destroyed the wand maker's remaining stock, save for one elder wand, which he placed in the cold hands of the dead murderer.

The next day, a servant found him and sent for the authorities who confiscated the wand. Yet, the very next day, the wand was stolen from the city vaults, the guards all murdered. Meanwhile, the two remaining brothers left town bearing a beautiful box containing what was left of the third.

****1047****

The train slowed to a stop, jerking and bouncing with brakes squealing. Mycroft snapped awake, having dosed off towards the end of the trip. Gremione was next to him, reading a book to herself, sandwiched between Lavender and Parvati. Neville and Seamus were nowhere to be seen, but Dean was sitting next to Colin, playing with their Bertie boxes. John and Sherlock were predictably snuggled up together, fast asleep.

Mycroft took a deep breath, stretching his arms upwards. Around him, the other kids began to get up as well, grabbing their things from the overhead. Mycroft collected Sherlock's things for him, shrinking them as well as his own and placing them in his pocket. He shrunk down John's as wel, but handed them to the small Weasley boy, who was now blearily blinking his eyes.

"I can see my parents!" Greg said, sounding pleased. She quickly gave the various children around her hugs, including Mycroft for some reason, then flounced out of the compartment throwing a promise to write all of them over her shoulder. Colin was the only one to answer her, besides John, and he gave Sherlock and John each an embrace of his own.

"Don't forget about my birthday," Colin fairly ordered them yet again. "I'll send my owl with more information later." Similar good-byes were exchanged until it was just Mycroft, John and Sherlock left alone with their pets and baggage.

"You better write, berk," John told Sherlock fondly. Sherlock rolled his eyes, saying nothing. The three of them exited the train together. Mycroft found that he felt some pity for his brother and John, though he knew that they'd see be seeing quite a bit of each other over the summer.  
"Ronnie!" the three boys turned to see Molly Weasley waving her arms from where she was standing with the rest of the Weasley crew.

"Well," Ron said awkwardly. "I'll be seeing you, then," and he began to turn away. Though in a surprising show of fast reflexes, Sherlock grabbed him about the waist and pecked his cheek. John grinned, as they let go. After another long, awkward moment, John finally began to head towards his family.

"We can probably visit Neville's this Saturday, we'll see him there." Mycroft tried to console his depressed looking brother. "And there will be plenty of outings that our year mates will have planned. Not to mention all of the birthday parties that will be taking place. Blaise's is in late June, and he's already invited him."

Sherlock nodded, once. Still staring after where John was following his family towards the barrier. "Draco, darling!" Mycroft, recognizing his mother's voice, turned.

"Come," Mycroft tugged on Sherlock's sleeve. He led his brother over to where the Malfoy parents were smiling genially at the two of them. "Sorry, mother," he apologized in his best "mummy's boy" tone, which he had perfected over the course of "Draco's" life. "We were saying goodbye to our friends."

Narcissa smiled at the two of them. "That's alright, dear. But come now, we've reservations for dinner."

"And we'd best head for the apparition point before too many people congest the walkway," Lucius added as they headed towards the barrier, his long legs striding in time with the serpent headed cane he swung in his right hand. "Do you have everything, Mr. Potter?" Lucius asked politely. "Enough for the summer?"

"Yes, Lord Malfoy," Sherlock said, mimicking his brother's mannerisms. Normally, he wouldn't bother, but if the Malfoy's grew tired of him it was within their rights to send him back to the Dursleys…not something Sherlock wanted. Lucius smiled at him.

"No need for that, Mr. Potter," he said, his tone a bit warmer now. "Lucius will be fine, and I'm sure my wife would be happy for you to call her Narcissa. You are to be staying with my family, as such you are a guest. No need for such formality."

"Then," Sherlock said, inwardly grinding his teeth at having to pander to the wizarding world's mandatory politeness. "I ask that you call me Sherlock." He then pointedly looked off to his left, where Blaise was waving to the two of them, completely missing Narcissa's barely covered smile.

****1047****

Ron was quieter than normal as his family sat down for dinner in the Burrow, which was saying something seeing as how he'd always been a very withdrawn boy. "I don't see why Harry decided to spend the holiday with the Malfoys," Molly was saying as she set down the crock of stew a bit harder than necessary. "He was happy enough over Christmas break, wasn't he?" she demanded.

"It's not personal, mum," said Fred, helping himself to a large portion of stew. "He just wanted to spend some time with his brother."

"And Draco's an okay kid," George added around a mouthful. "A bit stuck up, but it's to be expected I suppose."

"Draco's nice to me," Ron felt obliged to say. "And Sherlock didn't want to be a burden to our family over the summer."

"We wouldn't have minded if he'd wanted to pitch in," Molly said, sitting herself down.

Arthur set his cup down harshly. "Yes," he bit out. "We would have, Molly. I wouldn't stand for a boy to pay his own way, even one as well-to-do as _Sherlock_ Potter. I for one think that it's incredible that he's reaching out to Draco. Reminds me a bit of how his own father reached out to Sirius."

"Yes," Molly said loftily. "And we all know how well _that_ turned out."

The table was quiet. Surprisingly, it was Percy who broke the silence. "Sherlock is a very mature boy, who is confident and very much firm in his beliefs. The Malfoy's wouldn't be able to sway him to their side if they tried. And I don't think they will. After all, Draco gets along very well with the Muggleborns in his year, and he hasn't once called out family 'blood traitors'. In fact, he asked Hermione and Colin many many questions about current events in the muggle world."

Arthur smiled at his third son. "That's splendid!" he said. Then he barked out a laugh. "I wonder what ol' Lucy will think when he finds out his own heir is going blood traitor."

"Dad," Ron spoke up. "Is it okay if I spend Saturday with Neville?"

The Weasley patriarch looked surprised at the change of conversation. "Longbottom? He invited you again?" asked Molly. John inwardly sighed, wishing that Sherlock hadn't told him of his mother's gold-digging. He'd been willfully blind to it so far, but now that he knew it was painfully obvious. "That's good!" Molly said, a little forcedly when John didn't answer right away. "They're the good sort of people."

"Yes," said John quietly. "Neville gets lonely, since it's just him and his Gran. So he invited the first years for a picnic in his greenhouses."

"I don't see why you can't go, son," Arthur said warmly. "Be sure and owl your friend tonight to let him know." John nodded. "I take it that Sherlock will be there." John managed a smile.

"Yeah," he said, tension in his shoulders easing just a bit. "It was actually his idea. He more or less just told Neville that it was happening. But Neville was happy to ask his Gran."

The twins laughed. "Sounds like something Sherlock would do," said Fred. "A few of the third years have started calling him Lord Potter behind his back."

"Well he is," Percy said. "Isn't he? I mean, an heir at least. But being an, I don't mean to sound callous, but being an orphan he has the right to apply early for his Lordship. And being the Boy-Who-Lived, I'm not seeing him being denied it."

"You should bring that up when you see him Saturday, dear," Molly said excitedly. "Oh! Isn't this exciting?"

"I will," John said uneasily. "But I'm not seeing Sherlock wanting the Lordship. I mean, won't he have to sit on the Wizengamot?"

Percy nodded. "That's true. He'd be called on to vote on every bill that is raised, and even on trials. Also, his word would have even more weight than it already does. But overall, not much would change while he's in school. He'd have to appoint someone to vote in his stead until he's seventeen."

"Let's just hope he doesn't ask Malfoy," Molly sniffed. "That's probably why he invited Harry over."

" _Sherlock_ had Draco invite him," John felt mildly irritated as he picked at his stew. "It was their idea. From the sound of it, Draco's parents were only informed of their plans on Christmas."

"They've been planning it since Christmas?" asked George, crumbs from his dinner roll falling from his mouth. "Why didn't they invite you?" Percy kicked George hard under the table in a manner that was probably meant to be subtle.

"They did," John admitted. "But I turned them down, because I wanted to come home. Sherlock and M-Draco were disappointed, but then they decided we'd just have to visit each other a lot, so that no one would get lonely. Also, Colin Creevy has a birthday party next week. Can I visit Diagon Alley to get him a gift?"

"Certainly!" Arthur said happily. "Percy and I were going tomorrow anyway to pick up some medicine for Errol. You can come along and find something then!"

"Arthur," Molly said in a quiet tone, "We can't buy a gift for Creevy." She looked both guilty and depressed when she said this, and John's anger for her lifted somewhat. "I'm sorry, dear. Maybe we can whip him up some homemade cookies!"

"It's alright, mum," John said. "Sherlock's been giving me allowance." The mouthful of stew that Fred had just taken was promptly spat back out. "He said it's only fair since he expects most of what I buy to be for him anyway." Arthur laughed heartily. "If we need it, I can help out with groceries." Arthur stopped laughing.

"Now look, Ron," he said. "That money is yours and Sherlock's, and expect you to treat it as such. We," he pointed from himself to Molly. "Are your parents and it is our _delight_ to care for you. Understand?" John chewed his bottom lip.

"It'll be better now anyway," said George, wiping off his arm from where he got hit by his twin's spittake. "Since we don't have your medical bills to worry about anymore."

"George Fabian Weasley!" Molly shrieked. "You apologize to your brother!

"I didn't mean anything by it, mum," George protested.

"It's true," said John. "I don't want to go to doctors anymore. I'm fine."

"And if he ever gets worse, again" Fred jumped in. "We just have to ship him to wherever Sherlock is."

****1047****

John couldn't sleep that night. He lay there, in his bed, staring at the ceiling thinking about his life. He was guilty for feeling relieved that his father had turned down his offer to help out financially, and he was angry at his mother for only wanting his best friend around for his money. He was worried about how the Malfoy's were handling Sherlock. He was a tad lonely after spending every waking moment during the semester with his best friend. That, and he was cold. His small, cozy bed had never seemed so large and uncomfortable before.

About an hour later, just as his eyes had begun to grow dry and heavy, something scratched at his window. He was sitting up in an instant, his wand already in his hand, quickly grabbed from where he had stashed it under his pillow, despite not being allowed to use it during the summer. To John's confusion, it was Hedwig. The snowy owl was pecking furiously at his window pane. Sliding out of bed, John went to open the window. As soon as he did so, Sherlock's owl circled over to Ian's roost, helping herself to some of the water there. John carefully untied the letter and small box from her leg, stroking her back gently.

Obviously, it was from Sherlock.

" _John,_

 _I'm bored. Dinner was uncomfortable because I didn't feel like eating, but Mycroft's new slaves had decided to take us somewhere fancy. At least I don't have to share a room with Mycroft. It happened once, about thirty years ago when Mummy and Father took my brother and I someplace for holiday. We were staying in a cottage someplace, information deleted. Only two bedrooms, Mummy thought it would be "quaint". It turned out to be rather painful, actually. Literally, physically painful. It involved several chickens and a wire cutter but in the end both Mycroft and I ended up spending the majority of that holiday in the hospital._

 _I still hold to that it was entirely Mycroft's fault._

 _I have been experimenting with that mirror. Turns out it doesn't show the future. Don't know how I missed it. Obvious. It's such a bother being short, I keep missing details up high. I hate having to gape up at the ceiling like Creevy in order to see everything. In any event, it's a rather ingenious safe, of sorts. I'm still experimenting, but I've come to the conclusion that it may be somewhat sentient, capable of recognizing its owner. This is because you are able to store things in it, however when Mycroft tried to retrieve things from it, he found it impossible. I, on the other hand, can freely enter and exit the mirror._

 _It's like a door of sorts, there's a room on the inside. I'll show it to you when you visit, John. It's too risky to bring it out at Neville's, but perhaps sometime during the week. The Malfoy's already said I could invite you. I wanted to send one of the things I found, and interesting watch, with Hedwig along with this letter, but Mycroft informed me that people sometimes attack owls with parcels and I didn't want to risk it._

 _In the meantime, I've made two potions for you. One is a calming drought, just in case. The other is a potion called Dreamless Sleep that I'm sure you've heard of._

 _See you Saturday,_

 _W. Sherlock. S. H. J. Potter-Holmes_

 _(I'm thinking about changing my name legally, what are your thoughts?)_

*****1047*****

 **So, who do you guys think should represent Sherlock in the Wizengamot? Lucius? Arthur? Dumbledore? Snape? Make sure to review and let me know! Next update will prob be in a week…or two…maybe…**


	18. Marriage and Mirrors

**I'd like to clear something up. When I say "Sherlock needs a proxy to stand in for him while he's in school" I don't mean literally** ** _at_** **school, I mean while he's school-aged. So therefore Severus would still be a viable choice. Furthermore, I think that even if he had to leave during a lesson, they'd be able to find a sub pretty easily. After all, that position isn't cursed like the DADA's. I apologize for any confusion I might have caused.**

 **Thank you all so much for your input, particularly to those of you who were very thorough in explaining** ** _why_** **you thought what you did. That, more than anything, really helped to get my creative juices flowing. And while I hate just stealing an idea point for point (even one handed to me), I will still use element from them. And even if I don't, your ideas often get me thinking in different ways than I would have otherwise. I think I've got a solid idea for the proxy issue. Also, I'd like to apologize to those of you who have a deep love and understanding for politics. I have no experience in it and a lot of it is probs going to be b*** sh**. So, I welcome any and all insight into how YOU think the wizarding government should work. Also, while I'm at it, thank you for pointing out that it was the "Wizengamot" not Wizemgot. I'm really bad at remembering terms like that. A special thanks for Eliana34, who suggested Grandmother Longbottom.**

 **However, I would also like to point out that my understanding of the Spanish language is very limited, though I can get by. And my French language skills are limited to very simple words. I am far better at English. Or Latin if you're feeling adventurous.**

 **In other words, je suis désolé si je comprends mal vos commentaires, et si vous souhaitez empêcher que cela se produise, votre meilleur pari est de publier en anglais.** **Merci.**

Mycroft walked down the length of the hallway towards the door of his father's office, wondering why he was summoned. He and Sherlock had been "playing with rocks" in the back gardens, which of course meant he and Sherlock were trying to test the limits of the Philosopher's Stone. So far, they had been successful in turning water into elixir (by accident, Sherlock had thrown it across the room in irritation, and it landed landed in a vase. The water had turned silver and the lilies that had been sitting in it were yet to begin wilting. Apparently, you have to strike it with great force in a vessel of water.) They were able to turn lead, copper, silver, pyrite, quartz and table salt into gold, as well as various non-minerals such as small plants, pants and Mycroft's (previously) wooden writing desk.

His father had found them throwing dirt clods at each other—Sherlock started it—and while he had looked oddly amused, perhaps he had called Mycroft here to reprimand him for inappropriate behavior? Mycroft was uncertain of his father's stance on such activities, as Mycroft had never indulged in them previous to being reunited with his baby brother.

In any event, Mycroft had left his brother in their shared sitting room staring into that mirror he'd brought with him (Mycroft saw himself as the puppeteer of a future world dictator, though in the background Sherlock was talking with John and Greg, all of them looking safe and healthy. He knocked quietly on his father's study, and upon hearing his father's soft "Come in, son", he opened the door.

His mother was sitting on the edge of his father's wide, intimidating desk. Lucius was sitting in his high backed chair. Neither of them looked particuarily upset, in fact Mother was smiling. And so when asked to, he sat down readily. "Draco, I feel that it's time to share something with you. I must admit that I disprove of telling you so early, but your mother insisted." Mycroft ran through the possibilities in his head, obviously this was a change, a big one. Was he changing schools? Was mother pregnant? Did this have something to do with Voldemort?

"You're not sending me to Durmstrang?" Draco asked hesitantly. "Or Beauxbatons?"

Lucius chuckled a bit. "No, Draco. Don't worry. As much as I detest Dumbledore, I'm not pulling you out of Hogwarts."

"Then what is it?"

"We've secured a marriage contract for you!" his mother smiled grandly, as though she expected her son to start leaping for joy.

"What?" he asked "Who?" _Please not Pansy, please not Pansy, please not Pansy, please not Pansy, please not Pansy…_

"Why Mr. Potter, of course," Lucius smiled genially. "We noticed how fond you are of him. I think you'll be pleased to know that Dumbledore approves as well, being Sherlock's magical guardian. If Sherlock is returned to Hogwarts next semester happy and safe, Dumbledore agreed to sign the contract."

Mycroft could say nothing, but his brain was going a thousand miles an hour. "We won't be able to produce any heirs." He said quickly, feeling ill at the thought of it.

"Nonsense," Lucius brushed away concerns. "Potter tested positive as a bearer."

Mycroft's first thought was that he felt sorry for John when Sherlock got pregnant. Then he remembered that his father expected _him_ to marry…oh Great Merlin he was going to be sick. Safe and happy? What if he broke Sherlock's arm? No, no drastic enough. Better crush both his legs, but make it look like his father could have done it while it could still have been an accident. So…falling stone gargoyle? No, too unpredictable, he may seriously injure his brother's head, which would be unforgivable.

"A-and Dumbledore agreed?" Draco said, not even caring how shaky his voice was.

"Draco, darling," Narcissa was frowning now. "We thought you'd be pleased. You're obviously very fond of him."

 _He's my baby brother!_ Mycroft wanted to scream. But he decided to go the immature route "I don't _want_ to get married!"

Lucius chuckled. "You'll change your mind soon enough. For now, just think about it. A contract can always be nullified down the line if you meet someone else who you find preferable. But I think, in the long run, you'll quite warm up to the idea."

"Yes, Father," Mycroft said, feeling a tad relieved that it wasn't set in stone, as he had originally feared.

"Good, now, run along," Lucius told him fondly. "I'm sure your bride-to-be is waiting for you." Mycroft nodded once, forcing himself not to react to the gentle tease. He stood stiffly and exited the room. As soon as the door was closed, he broke into a run down the hall and up the stairs to Sherlock's room. He threw open the door, then slammed it shut.

"Sherlock!"

"I'm right here, moron," Mycroft turned slightly to see Sherlock reading a book on the window seat. "What is it?" Sherlock narrowed his eyes at him. "Your father did something."

"He engaged me to you," he chocked out. "He's delusioned himself into thinking I fancy you. It's to be official at the end of the summer. Dumbledore has apparently already given his approval."

"Approval? Dumbledore? Wait…engaged? No." Disbelief was written all over Sherlock's face. "Engaged? Us? You? Marry?" Now disgust and barely restrained need to vomit was written all over Sherlock's face. "Mycroft…" Sherlock's voice sounded weak. "How…why…Dumbledore shouldn't have that sort of power over me? Where does he get this authority, he's just our headmaster."

"He's your magical guardian, Sherlock. Old laws prevent Muggles from having power over _any_ wizard. All Muggleborns and otherwise muggle-raised children are automatically given over as wards to the headmaster of their chosen school. It's one of the main reason Durmstrang won't accept mudbloods."

"Did…did your father say anything else about our…" Sherlock gagged and ran out of them room, pale faced. Mycroft slowly followed him, not feeling too great himself.

"Apparently, he somehow had it verified that you're a bearer."

"A what?" Sherlock gasped.

"You're expected to one day bear my children, Sherlock."

Sherlock lost the fight and emptied his stomach all over the floor of Draco's bathroom. "No, gods above…"

"It's only if Dumbledore think's you're happy and healthy—"

"Mycroft!" Sherlock suddenly cried "hurry. Break my arm!"

"It's not set in stone," Mycroft said, but started reaching for his wand anyway. "We can go along with it, then break it off when we're older."

"No," Sherlock said, stumbling to the sink to rinse out his mouth. "John. I need to talk to my John."

"Or think of a way to cause you bodily harm, while making it look like an accident that my father could be a possible, but not necessarily probable, cause of."

"Why bother?! It wouldn't be the first time you've broken my arm!"

"That wasn't my fault Sherlock! If you hadn't stolen that chicken—"

"They were going to cut off its head!"

"You tried to do the same!"

"It was all your fault that it—"

"I had nothing to do with how it—" Mycroft stopped mid rant and sighed. "The issue remains, brother mine. I'd much rather see you wed to the good doctor. Nearly as much as you yourself. We'll see the others Saturday. It would be a good time to stage an accident, or we could consult your John and come to a logical arrangement."

"I don't want to wait. I want to murder your father. And Dumbledore."

"Please leave my father alone. He's an idiot, but he meant well."

"Fine. But you have to help me exact vengeance on the Headmaster."

****1047*****

Ever since Father died, Cadmus had been obsessed with the idea of crossing over to the world of death. Not to say he was suicidal. He loved his life. He had a lot of friends, he loved his mother, he adored his big brother and he was horrible protective of his little brother. But the idea of being able to cross over temporarily was never far from him mind.

When his older brother had returned from where he trained to be a necromancer, Cadmus jumped on the opportunity. After Antioch, Cadmus—though a powerful mage in his own right—was simply overlooked because he wasn't _quite_ as amazing as Antioch. But Cadmus didn't mind. He's explored his magic on his own, and it suited him fine. Especially since he could help raise his baby brother when his mother fell sick. Which was often.

Cadmus often ventured to the nearby witches' coven, who were well known for their massive library. He studied on his own, or with his brother. He learned to animate dead bodies, and have them do his bidding. Though they were mindless. Soulless. Cadmus ventured deeper, and stumbled upon the ancient writings of one Hupo de Fole. A famous necromancer who had allegedly achieved immortality through an anchor. An anchor which kept his soul tethered to earth, no matter what happened to his body.

Day and night, Cadmus studied runes, and created his own. He became obsessed with his project, often returning to the elder witch to ask questions. Then Antioch came back, bearing gifts and relics. Among them was a small rock, originally a drop of the Earth's own blood, cooled in the pure water of a winter's first snow. Claiming it for himself, Cadmus' looked upon his work with a new found vigor and excitement. Where he had been obsessed before, he was now nearly crazed with desire and curiosity.

Then his mother died. Both of his brothers wept bitterly, and eventually Antioch left, unable to stand the quiet house, forever robbed of Mother's kind voice. Ignotius was just a young thing, not even into his twentieth year. He found comfort in his childhood friend, Accalia. They were wed a mere month later. But Cadmus had no such comfort. His family was his everything, and now his brother Antioch was wandering and his baby brother Ignotius was wed.

And then Antioch died. Murdered for his power. Cadmus was numb as they traveled home, bearing Antioch's remains between himself and the sobbing Ignotius. When they got home, Ignotius howled and screamed, throwing things with his hands and with his magic. Cadmus on the other hand, simply sat in the bedroom in the old house that he used to share with his brothers. He turned the small rock, which had been a gift from his older brother, around and around in his hands.

He had never gotten to work, despite be sure that it should be completed and successful. But as he sat there, he wished sorely for his father and his wisdom; for his mother and her softness; for his brother and his love.

And then they were there. His father stood before him, smiling proudly. His mother sat beside him, intangible arms around him. His brother behind him, a hand on his shoulder. Cadmus leaped up and moved to embrace Antioch. But his arms passed through his brother's body, as though there was nothing there.

It was a small comfort though to see them and hear their voices. He shared his creation with Ignotius, who spent a long time talking to their three dead family members. But never asked again after that to see them. Ignotius walked about with an air of peace and contentment about him. But Cadmus's soul grew heavier and wearier every day.

With every passing day, his souls of his family seemed thinner, less their souls and more a flickering reflection of what he had lost. By the time Ignotius' fourth child was born, Cadmus barely left his room anymore.

He had a new task.

For threescore and fifteen days, Cadmus barely ate or slept. But, in the end, he had created what no other man had accomplished.

He opened a pathway to Hades. The distortion in reality rippled like a veil and shimmered like smoke. Cadmus laughed in glee as he contained the pathway in an arch made of elder wood and marble. Then he ran for his brother. Ignotius had looked in alarm at his brother's haggard appearance, but willingly followed his remaining brother to gaze upon his newest creation.

But upon seeing the Veil, Ignotius drew back in fear.

"It isn't natural, brother," he pleaded. "Let the dead rest that you may find your own!" But Cadmus wouldn't listen, as his little brother watched on in horror, he held his Stone tight in his hand as he entered the Veil, shaking off Ignotius' grip on his tunic. In the Veil, it was warm. Warm like a fireplace on a winter's eve. Comforting, though a bit overwhelming.

As before, he was able to summon his three familial spirits with his Stone. But now, he could touch them. He wrapped his arms around his father for the first time in decades. He kissed his mother's cheek, then he wept on his brother's shoulder. Antioch held him gently, and Cadmus thought "How perfect this would be if Ignotius came through."

So thinking, he tossed his anchor back through the Veil. But whatever he called to the remaining Peverell brother was lost as his soul flickered, and disappeared beyond the Veil.

*****1047*****

Sherlock stared at the mirror that he's set by his bed. He'd kept it well hidden, only letting even Mycroft see it for a few moments. But at night, when he couldn't sleep but was wary of wandering because of the many portraits in the halls, he gazed at it. He found that it changed frequently, and he wondered if it was that way for everybody.

Tonight, it showed he and John in 221b Baker Street. They were older, but not quite the age they were when they died. Perhaps early twenties. John was sitting on the couch, watching telly, laughing and talking to Sherlock's mirror image, who was beside mirror John toying with some rune stones.

Mentally, Sherlock knew that he needn't worry about his pending engagement, here Sherlock inwardly retched, with his older brother. There were laws set up today that prevented parents and guardians from forcing a marriage bond. Nowadays, it was more like a suggestion stating the parents' wishes. However, Lord Malfoy would obviously be very displeased if it didn't "work out", which would be unfortunate for Mycroft.

And while Sherlock may like vexing his brother for time to time, he didn't really want to cause a rift between the Malfoy heir and his father. Sherlock sighed, placing his hand on the mirror, he wished John were here to talk to. While most of his ideas were mainly simple and wrong, they still usually prompted the right idea to formulate in Sherlock's mind.

With a heavy sigh, Sherlock gave a push on the magic mirror he'd stolen, and the glass rippled before shimmering a transparent silver. Sherlock stepped through, and into the tidy little library/ storage room. There were bookshelves piled high with tomes dusty from disuse and yellowy-brown with age. There was even a good deal of ancient looking scrolls. In the middle of the space was a decorative wooden table, piled with boxes that Sherlock was yet to go through. Sentiment made him want to wait for John.

But all the sentiment in the world wasn't enough for Sherlock to stop rifling through the books. Aeldin had seen them through Sherlock's mind's eye, and had promptly ordered him to read several certain ones, saying they were of necromancy. However, Sherlock soon realized that approximately 87% of the books here _were_ about the "art" of necromancy.

The majority of what was left after that, Sherlock found he liked the most. They were journals, familiar-feeling worn old journals and notebooks of someone once named "I.L.P". In the notebooks were written out processes of experiments and descriptions of rituals. There were diagrams of magical creatures Sherlock had never heard of like Cerastes, Thestrals, Amphisbaenas, and Nargles. But mostly, there were short passages telling about I.L.P.'s wife, Accalia and their many, many children. I.L.P. obviously doted on all of them, and adored his wife. He seemed to be a Lord of some sort, and a very wealthy man. There were also tales about his two brothers, older brothers, who he mourned as they died before him. The eldest was murdered, the second, suicide.

He enjoyed pouring over the small glimpses into this life, though Aeldin tried to tell him it was a waste of time. Sherlock felt otherwise, like the understanding of I.L.P was crucial for some reason.

He felt justified in this when he found a passage on the patronus charm. He felt a thrill of discovery: I.L.P. was the inventor of the spell. Granted it had changed over years, the common spoken incantation was _expecto patronum_. But the original was much longer. Was the incantation perfected over time? Or just shortened?

" _I had heard from the old wise man who lived alone amongst the graves that pure innocence was all that could drive away the dark forms that haunted the forest at the edge of our kingdom. Criminals fell prey to them like bowtruckles before a goblin. But children, they found hard to consume. They delight in the dark parts of the soul, but if given the opportunity they will take it all._

 _Nearly a dozen men have fallen to these creatures. Their bodies are whole, tis true, but their mind's our gone. They have not the ravings of mad men, nor do they act as simpletons do, drooling on their chins. Rather, they are empty. And it frightens me. Lord Prince has asked me accompany him through the woods: he wishes to find a certain herb for a potion. I have told him he is a fool, but he persists and I cannot allow my good friend fall victim to the deamons that haunt the forbidding forest._

 _Innocence is what drives them away, and yet we are grown men. What innocence is there left in us? Where purity can be found in our souls. It is quite by chance that I found my answer, to my question and my problem. It was when my young daughter, Charis, ran into the room holding a doll she made wrapped in a rough cloth._

 _My children are my innocence, my love for them and my wife. I need much conjure a manifestation of the purest form of this, if it is possible is could act as a guard…"_

Pages and pages were filled with record of I.L.P. trials and errors. Until a messily scrawled paragraph excitedly reported success accompanied by the words: " _Clamabo fortisaspiciam. Expectabo patronus. Exmundabit (extoadsto)"_

Sherlock wondered about the passage. Innocence, rather than love? Or is it implying that love is the most innocent thing we can feel? Put aside the journal, and, with one last look around, he exited the mirror.

Sitting down on his bed, he drew out his holly wand. "Clamabo fortisaspiciam" he muttered, thinking of the moment he saw John/Ron Weasley for the first time. "Clamabo fortisaspiciam" walking in with Mike Stamford at St. Bard's. Standing with his family at platform 9 ¾. "Expectable patronus." Of the moment John forgave him for faking his death. His wand tip glowed white, mist pouring from it. "Extoadsto" Of the first train ride Sherlock spend getting reacquainted with John Watson while learning everything there was about Ron Weasley.

Something white and four legged jumped out of his wand. Sherlock gave a shout of exhilaration, leaping from his bed. Then he paused, taking in the form of what was supposedly the "manifestation" of his "innocence".

"…..a hedgehog?"

****1047****

Saturday couldn't come fast enough for any of the first years involved, but none more so than John. Saturday morning he all but leaped out of bed with a manic energy he hadn't felt since he and Sherlock had gone down to retrieve the stone. He threw on a jumper and pants before running down the stairs, heading for the fireplace. A hand on the back of his collar stopped him when he was halfway across the living room.

"No you don't!" scolded Molly with a twinkle of mirth in her eyes. "You need to eat some breakfast first. Besides, Lady Longbottom isn't expecting you children until ten o'clock."

"Neville said he'd see us first thing."

"Neville isn't Lord of the Manor."

"yet"

"Sit."

Grudgingly, John trudged to sit down at the breakfast table, where Arthur was already eating a plate of runny eggs. "Cheer up, sport," his father said happily. "Once you're there, you'll have all day. Lady Longbottom owled us last night, saying that her house was open for visitors until bedtime. And I'm sure Sherlock will be just as reluctant to leave as you are."

John smiled a but ruefully, but then thanked his mother as she set a plate down before him. What seemed like ages later, John was finally allowed to take a pinch of Floo Powder and shout into the green flames "Longbottom Manor!" John stumbled a bit as he stepped out of the fire. Longbottom manor was just as beautiful as he remembered. The receiving room was wide open with gleaming windows and soft flowing curtains.

"John!" John flinched a little in surprise when a small body threw itself at him, knocking them both to the floor. But he wasn't irritated. He only did his best to squeeze the life out of Sherlock. "Finally, I've been waiting for hours."

"One hour, brother dear. Barely."

"Piss off, Mycroft."

"Geez, guys. It's been a week, stop acting like it's been a decade."

"Shut up, Greg."

"You made it!" That one was Neville as he walked in with a big grin. "We're just waiting for Dean and Theodore now. Everyone else is already outside. Mycroft and Sherlock brought a bunch of spare Comet 600s, so we're going to play a Quidditch game!"

"You're going to play?" John asked Sherlock, who was only just then decided to get up off of him. "Really?" Sherlock wrinkled his nose.

"I shall be a beater." He said loftily. "And only because it means I get to hit Mycroft with a stick."

"That's not actually…" Neville tried to say, but then Colin ran in.

"HI GUYS!" he shouted, slinging his arms around the duo. "WegotherereallyearlybecauseIwasexcitedbutthenweweretiredbecauseitwasonlyfourinthemornignandIcouldn'tsleeplastnightbecauseIwassoexcitedandImissedyouguyssomuchit'sbeenprettylonelyathomejustmeandDenisbutI'msogladtoseeyouyou'remybestestfriendseverandI'msoluckyandI'mhappyyou'reherenowandIcan'twaittoplayQuiddtichI'mgoingtoplaykeeperforSherlock'steamandI'veneverplayedbeforesoI'mscaredbecauseI'llcrackmyfaceopenonthegrassisitpossibletobreakyourfaceonthegrassHeydidyouknowthatthesnitchissemisentientandthere'spieinthekitcens and I HAD COFFEE!" Colin broke into a giggling fit and ran back out of the room.

"I didn't know he'd react so strongly…" Neville seemed a bit uncomfortable. "but he said he didn't really like tea that much so…"

"He's been here since four?" John asked.

"Snitches are sentient?" asked Greg, interestedly.

"Wait, why'd _he_ get coffee?" Sherlock pouted.

*****1047*****

John was somewhat surprised when Mycroft cornered him and Sherlock as they were getting ready for the mock Quidditch game, but when he looked at his friend, Sherlock seemed only resigned and sort of ill. "Have you spoken to him, brother?"

"Not yet," Sherlock sighed. "John," Sherlock looked him in the eyes, taking him by the elbows. "They want us to get married."

"Now?" John asked dumbly, wondering where the heck this came up and why now.

"In a way," Mycroft answered. "My father has drawn up a marriage contract."

John was even more confused. Why would Lucius Malfoy be involved in a marriage contract between him and Sherl—oh…."wait…" he said slowly. "They want you two…"

"yes"

"marriage"

"yes"

"now?"

"…the end of the summer, anyway."

John was quiet for a moment. "Is that legal? I mean, how can he make a contract for Sherlock. I mean, I can't see Lord Malfoy stooping to talking to the Dursleys about it."

"Not the Dursley's," Sherlock said wearily. "Dumbledore. He's my magical guardian acting in loco parentis. He probably things that by marrying me to Mycroft he'd gain the allegiance and wealth of the Malfoys. Which is stupid because in order for that to happen he'd have to have mine in the first place and forcing me to do things _against my will_ is _not_ a good way to go about _gaining_ said allegiance!" Sherlock was close to having smoke billowing out of his ears.

John felt a strange sort of sick sitting in the bottom of his chest. "It's too bad you aren't still blood brothers," John said weakly. "then this whole thing would be illegal."

Mycroft and Sherlock were quiet for a moment. John watched as their eyes simultaneously grew larger, their eyebrows rising up into their foreheads. Under normal circumstances, it'd be funny.

"Well," said Mycroft. "It's a good thing father offered to let us stay the night."

"You're a genius!" Sherlock crowed, leaping forward to place a smacking kiss to John's cheek. "Come, the others are waiting." Sherlock said, looking happier than he had all morning as he drug John and Mycroft by the hands over to the Quidditch pitch. Mycroft was looking rather content as well, but John was just trying to figure out what the heck just happened.

******1047*****

 **I'd like to take this moment to say HAPPY BIRTHDAY K505**. **You're one of my fav readers, and you've given me a lot of food for thought with your messages and reviews. I hope you have a wonderful birthday, and that you like today's update! Sorry it's a bit shorter than normal, but I wanted to get something up today for you. XDXDXD**

 ***hugs and kisses***


	19. You-Know-Who Returns

**Hi! Thanks for the Guest who reviewed about the Grangers. I hadn't even thought about the conversation that they and the Weasleys would have! As for Gremione's gender, she is a non-binary person who accepts the use of female pronouns.**

 **Thank you for all of the kind reviews, however there were some voiced displeasure at my chosen pairing, and I would just like to point out that in the summary of my story I did, in fact, say that this would be a Johnlock fic. If you don't like that, then please don't read my story. Or, at the very least, don't tell me that you dislike it every time I make them do something fluffy.**

 **While this IS an asexual romance, it is a romance never the less. And while I'm genuinely sorry that some of you don't like that, I don't feel sorry enough to change my story. Thank you.**

It was ridiculously easy to leave Longbottom Manor unnoticed. Though Sherlock pouted that John was forced to go home at the end of the day, he and Mycroft were welcomed to spend the night. It was painfully obvious that Dumbledore had spoken to his longtime supporter, Augusta Longbottom, about bringing the Malfoy's over to the Light's side, using the relationship between Draco and the Gryffindor first years, particularly Harry and Neville. She made certain to let both boys know that they were always welcome at their house, all the while singing Dumbledore's praises and regaling them with tales of him many accomplishments. She even went so far as to subtly (or as subtly as a Gryffindor could manage, anyway) mention that Dark Magic was rumored to shrivel your soul and deform your body, ("Just think of what Voldemort looked like towards the end!").

Outwardly the boys were polite and well-mannered, much to Augusta's delight. ("You should be more like them, Neville. Perfect examples of pureblood heirs!") But inwardly, Sherlock was sneering at her. Dark Magic didn't deform your soul and body. _Cutting up your soul_ was another story, but honestly Sherlock had the Philosopher's Stone, he didn't _need_ a Horcrux.

That night, Sherlock and Mycroft crept to the receiving hall of Longbottom Manor, and Flooed to the Leakey Cauldron. They received an odd look from Tom, the barkeeper, but they ignored him and Tom left them alone. There was hardly anybody up, aside from a man at the bar (recently divorced, wife ran off with brother) and an elderly witch sipping a bowl of soup alone at a table in the corner (widowed, owns four cats).

The street of Diagon Alley was similarly deserted. Most of the shop's lights were off, the doors latched and locked. Carts were warded off with protective bubbles around them that would prevent thieves from stealing any goods. The few shops that were open were being run by yawning employees. The only sounds in the normally buzzing market place was that of owls from the emporium and the faint clatter of cauldrons being dropped. Occasionally, one would see a small group of shoppers leave a shop and enter another, or a lone wizard would leave a store and apparate away with a deafening _crack_ that was heard echoing through the street.

The boys felt slightly ill at ease as they walked, having grown somewhat unused to this level of, for lack of better wording, unsupervised freedom. But they showed no outward sign of it. And if they walked a bit closer than they normally would have, neither of them said anything.

Gringotts was naturally still open, as goblins were nocturnal by nature and the day shifts were actually the less desired ones (both because of their natural preference for night, and their cultural hatred of wizards), therefore night was the optimal time of "day" to go if you wanted to catch a goblin in a good mood, as Mycroft and Sherlock were hoping to do. After all, a content goblin was more likely to accept a bribe to perform an illegal bonding ritual than a grumpy one who'd been dealing with pompous aristocrats all day.

They marched up the steep steps of the bank and bowed the passing goblins on their way to the front desks. "Awful strange to see such young things out alone at night," grinned the Goblin at the desk, baring their many sharp teeth. "What business have you here?"

Mycroft spoke up, having watched his father's many dealing with goblins. "We wish to pay for a bonding ritual. A brother bond." The goblin raised one eyebrow, smile falling away. "Money is no object," he added for good fortune. "Though time is of the essence."

"Run away in the middle of the night to get bonded?" the goblin seemed to teased them, tilting his head at them, as though they were a pair of mildly amusing squirrels. "My, how romantic." Both of the boys visibly winced at this, making the goblin appear even more amused. "I'm sorry, gentlemen" said the goblin, sounding anything but, "but it is bank policy to require a parent or guardian's approval for such things. Good-night."

"Then I wish to be emancipated," said Sherlock, speaking up. "I am heir of the Potter line, and I have been neglected by both my muggle and magical guardians. As a pureblood heir it is my right to demand it." The goblin's smile returned three-fold.

"One moment," he said before sending off a message via enchanted flying parchment. Then he jerked a claw to a nearby Goblin. They spoke briefly in their own, guttural tongue, before they were asked to follow the second goblin. They were lead down the hall, then bowed into a rather boring looking office room, with nothing inside but three chairs, a desk and a potted plant. They took their seats and waited until the door had shut behind the goblin to speak.

"What are you doing?" Mycroft asked. "You'll have to sit on the Wizenmagot if you do this. You realize that, don't you?"

"Yes," Sherlock said. "John's already told me. Don't worry, I've got it figured out." Before Mycroft could question him further, a goblin walked in, bearing a rather ominous looking bowl.

"You wish to claim Lordship, thrice-borne?" asked the Goblin with a predatory grin that made Sherlock instinctively scoot closer to his brother. He held out a claw, taking up one of Sherlock's small hands. "You'll have to provide some proof of your claim."

****1047****

"You have heard nothing, Severus? Seen nothing? What of your Dark Mark, has it darkened?" Albus demanded of his Potion Master as he paced across the floor of his office. He was agitated, he was nervous. He was scared like he hadn't been since Gellart and furthermore he was completely in the dark. He had _no_ idea what was going on, and it was a new and unwelcome feeling to Dumbledore.

"I have told you," Severus said, beginning to look angry. "There has been nothing but society talk from Malfoy, and I don't associate with the others anymore. My Dark Mark is as faint as it was the day the Dark Lord was vanquished, and I have seen the same things you have." Minerva, who was sitting just a few feet away, looked from one to the other with an expression of weariness.

"How do we know Quirenus was not simply acting on his own?" Minerva asked. "You have to admit it is awfully suspicious for a longtime Muggle Studies teacher to suddenly become interested in the Defense Against the Dark Arts position. And it would be foolish to think that something as grand as the _Philosopher's Stone_ wouldn't attract the Dark Lord's attention alone. We were bound to be targeted by numerous parties."

Albus sighed. "I was yet to tell you this," he said as he sank down in his desk chair. "But Quirenus was found in the chamber when I entered. Or, at least, his remains were. Who ever took the stone also killed him. And not just killed, but completely destroyed his body. There was nothing left but his robes and a pile of ashes. And not only that, but the Mirror of Erised has gone missing as well."

There was silence, then Severus spoke, his voice marginally less angry than before. "And you hold to your idea that Quirrell was possessed?"

"I do."

"Why would Voldemort destroy his own vessel?" Minerva argued.

"Because he no longer had need of it," Severus said grimly. "If Albus' fears prove true, then The Dark Lord has risen again." Minerva closed her eyes, as though in pain. Albus nodded gravely, looking every year of his age. "We must prepare, if the Dark Lord _has_ risen, then Hogwarts would be the first place he would attack. You must be careful, Albus. Whoever you chose as the Defense Professor must be carefully screened. If the Dark Lord had been _accompanying_ Quirrell, then we are unspeakably lucky that we didn't lose any students this year."

"We almost lost Mr. Weasley," Minerva said quietly. "The little one, anyway. During that Quidditch match." Severus nodded, remembering.

"Don't worry," said Dumbledore. "The man I have in mind could not _possibly_ be one of Voldemort's followers." He wasn't done speaking, but whatever he said next was interrupted by an alarm on one of his many trinkets going off, startling the three of them. Severus' eyes asked a question, though no one said anything as Dumbledore rose to check it. Not until they saw his shoulders tense and his lined face grow more worried did Minerva venture to ask what was wrong.

"The wards around Privet Drive are weakening."

***1047***

Lucius watched his wife get ready for bed, combing through her long hair with an ivory comb. "I enjoy having Sherlock here," Narcissa said suddenly, startling Lucius out of his thoughts. "It's almost as though…" she stopped and Lucius felt a familiar pang of guilt. His wife had always wanted many children, but because of the curse on the Malfoy family, was unable to. The age old hate of the Weasley clan rose up in him, but he pushed it aside for the time being so that he could focus on his wife.

"He's good for Draco," Lucius agreed. "I always thought our son acted far too…"

"Frigid?" Narcissa asked with a smile. "Like you?" Lucius raise an eyebrow, but said nothing. Narcissa turned back to her mirror. "The boy is very powerful; you can feel it just by being near him."

"He will make a good addition to the family," Lucius smiled.

*****1047*****

Sherlock slipped the heavy ring on his finger. "Congratulations," said the Goblin in front of him. Griphook, the mini-John in his head reminded him, smiled a truly fearsome smile "Lord Potter-Peverell". Mycroft looked smugly proud with the grin he was wearing. The Peverell Lordship was something of a surprise, it hadn't been claimed in over a century.

Many of the old lines had requirements for potential heirs that, if not met, they were not legally able to claim the Lordship regardless of blood. For the Potter Lordship, the heir need only have at least one pureblood parent. For the Peverell Lordship, the heir must have a light affiliation and their core must be a certain size. At first Mycroft had been skeptical that Sherlock, who was young enough that his core was not yet fully grown, would be either Light _or_ powerful enough to claim the Peverell Lordship.

But apparently he was.

On the middle fingers of both hands, Sherlock now wore two rather tacky looking rings. The Potter Ring was golden, with the black shield crest of the Potter family engraved on the top. The Peverell ring was solid platinum, with an unidentifiable golden-yellow stone pulsating with power. Their strange family symbol was encased in the stone—a triangle holding a circle holding a line.

"As Lord Potter-Peverell," Sherlock asked. "I would like to change my name, and then authorize a blood bond for myself and my brother." The Goblin bowed low, then retrieved several ink pots, two quills and several scrolls of parchment from within his desk.

"A name change, brother?" asked Mycroft lowly. "Are you certain?"

"Yes, Mycroft," Sherlock rolled his eyes. "John and I have already discussed it."

"And the name you wish to take upon yourself?" The Goblin interrupted them, a quill already poised in his claw above a scroll. "Though, Lord Potter-Peverell, I must warn that should you wish to change your surname, you may only legally take on the pureblood surnames you have right to. Which limits you the Black, Potter, Peverell and Shafiq names."

Sherlock nodded his understanding. "I understand."

"Then, please proceed."

"William Sherlock Scott Hadrian James Potter-Peverell" Sherlock spoke slowly and clearly. The Goblin paused but a moment before jotting down the name, then proceeding to filling out the rest of the scroll. Sherlock noticed Mycroft staring at him out of the corner of his eyes.

"What?"

"Is that going to be William Sherlock Scott Hadrian James Potter-Peverell-Weasley when you get married?" he asked innocently. Sherlock began to scowl at him, then paused.

"I don't know," he said after a while, looking baffled. "Perhaps John will take my name. It's more important after all."

"I'd phrase it a bit differently when you bring it up, brother."

"Obviously."

"Johnald Bilius Hamish Peverell…John Ronald Bilius Hamish Potter-Peverell…"

"Oh, just shut up."

"If you would just sign here," Griphook spoke up, handing a peculiar red pen to Sherlock. "There will be a slight itching sensation on the back of your hand. Just ignore it, my Lord."

Sherlock nodded and scrawled out his new/old name on the parchment. "My blood?" Sherlock asked Mycroft when Griphook took the scroll back.

"It's a blood quill," his brother told him. "It's to ensure your signature is truly yours. After all, you can steal someone's face, but it's much harder to take their blood." Sherlock nodded.

"If you'll follow me," the goblin rose. "I will show you to the bonding chambers."

Mycroft turned to Sherlock. "Ready to be brothers again?"

Sherlock scoffed, striding passed him. "Please…" he drawled, though said nothing else as he followed the goblin deeper into the bank.

*****1047*****

They made it back to Longbottom manor just after three in the morning. They snuck into the room they were sharing (They had asked to share one so that it'd be easier to sneak out together) and sat down on their respective beds. Sherlock massaged the rune that he had magically printed onto his shoulder, knowing his brother—truly his brother—had a matching one on his own.

They had chosen a symbol that was the combinations of the runes Algiz, the rune for protection; Othala, the rune for inheritance and ancestors; Teiwaz, the rune for analysis and rationality; and Berkana, the rune of renewal and rebirth. The first three runes overlaid each other, creating the vague shape of an arrow, while the third was much smaller and slightly to the right of the first shape.

"You don't regret it do you?" Mycroft asked softly. "You always hated being my brother. Before." Sherlock didn't answer, knowing that his brother meant several things by that. On the logical, rational side, he understood that it wasn't actually necessary. New rules put in place protected children from risking losing their magic because of a stupid contract their parents had signed for them. If it really came down to it, they could always have just waited it out and put up with people knowing they were betrothed, then breaking off the engagement when they were adults. However, the small sentimental part of him…had missed being a little brother.

"It's illegal to marry a family member any more immediate than a first cousin," Sherlock said instead of voicing this. Mycroft slowly nodded, then pulled down his bed covers, slipping off his heavy outer robe. Sherlock stayed sitting up, staring out the window. The Mirror of Erised weighed heavily in his pocket, the last time he had peered into it, it had changed slightly. Sherlock stood before himself, and he instinctively knew that he no longer hid anything about himself for fear of being shunned by the few people he cared about. Behind him stood about four dozen people, starting with Mycroft and John standing at his shoulders, and fanning out from them. A few he recognized: Mrs. Hudson, Mummy, Greg. Most he didn't. They were unfamiliar familiar faces. People he should know but didn't. It was like he'd accidently deleted them. It was worrying.

Sherlock looked over at Mycroft, who was laying facing away from him. "No, brother mine" Sherlock said quietly. "I don't. Didn't."

There was no sound for a long stretch. "Goodnight, Sherlock."

******1047******

Aeldin rummaged through the many memories he had access to. He had learned much from the books that Sherlock had found in the Mirror of Erised. I.L.P. had studied with one Herpo Fole (Called "the Foul"), one of the greatest necromancers to have ever lived. He invented horcruxes, and while history recorded that he'd only made one, it wasn't completely true.

While it was often theorized that true regret could mend the soul and destroy a Horcrux, this was complete fiction made up by one of Socrates' followers who was a contemporary of Herpo the Foul. The truth was much more scientific…if you counted using the elixir of life at all scientific. Herpo experimented with horcruxes he made from his slave's souls. He had stolen a Philosopher's Stone from Socrates, who had been the one to create them, and had soaked the horcruxes in elixir made from the blood of an innocent. The soul piece had left the vessel as soon as contact was made and flown back to its original host.

Not only that, but Herpo had theorized that with each Horcrux made the soul was split exactly in half. With this knowledge, Herpo had made eight Horcruxes, then soaked all but the last and smallest one in the elixir.

Brilliant man, Herpo the Foul.

Which left Aeldin (he was actually growing rather fond of the name his host had given him) with the question of should he trust Sherlock with the knowledge of where his horcruxes were? If he followed Herpo's example, he could leave this small piece of himself in Sherlock and return the rest to his body. After all, who besides his own followers would ever seek to kill the beloved Boy-Who-Lived? But there was also the problem of his main piece not having a body at the moment. Of course, it was entirely possible for Sherlock to made a homunculus under his instruction, the boy was plenty capable.

Besides, who knew where his main piece was at the moment, if it had already taken steps to restoring his body?

*****1047******

Sherlock and Mycroft spent the next week and a half at Malfoy Manor exploring the Mirror's many books, devouring the information that had previously been all but lost to the wizarding world. Mycroft had all but drooled over the box of "time turners" they'd found, and had immediately claimed one for himself, which prompted Sherlock to put one around his own neck (despite having never heard of the contraptions before).

They had been working their way through a collection of books written on the subject of sea dragons when one of Sherlock's alarms went off. It meant someone was approaching their bedroom. Throwing down their books they stumbled out of the mirror and had but a moment to spare after shrinking it down and slipping it into Sherlock's robe pocket before the door opened and Lucius peeked his head in. He smiled at them. "I'm pleased to see that you boys have been getting along," he said with a meaningful look that had both boys smiling (though for entirely different reasons than Lucius was thinking), "But it's been three days and you've barely left your room. Go on outside, it's a lovely day and you're wasting in inside like a couple of vampires."

Sherlock pouted a bit, but soon acquiesced and began looking for his shoes. Mycroft led the way to their stables, where they could continue having their preferred level of privacy. The Abraxas Pegasus kept there tossed their heads in greeting when the boys walked in. "He sent us out here for a reason," Sherlock said as soon as they had checked for any eavesdropping spells. Mycroft nodded, his gaze off towards the Manor.

"Yes," his brother agreed. "And it probably has to do with the fact that Headmaster Dumbledore just apparated onto our front steps." Sherlock stuck his head back out of the stable to see for himself, just in time to see the Headmaster admitted into the Manor.

"I wonder what business he has with your father," Sherlock wondered aloud.

"Probably something to do with you."

"Might be checking to make sure your father hasn't chopped me up and put me in a potion, or used my gizzards for a Dark Ritual."

"Sherlock don't be absurd. A gizzard isn't an organ typically found in humans."

"….I knew that…."

"Of course, brother dear"

"….I just deleted it."

"I'm sure."

"…..Shut up"

******1047******

Dumbledore invited himself to sit down in the Malfoy's home, causing Lucius' left eyebrow to twitch slightly, but both parties ignored the blatantly rude move on the head master's part. "Lucius!" Dumbledore greeted like the Malfoy Lord was an old friend. "How have you been this fine summer's day?"

"Perfectly well, Headmaster, thank you," Lucius said with only slightly gritted teeth. Dumbledore smiled blindingly at him.

"Please, Lucius, call me Albus!"

"Of course."

"I'm sure you know why I'm here," Dumbledore prompted.

Lucius nodded once. "If you are here to see young Mr. Potter, he and my son are out in the stables, playing with the animals. He's quite well, as I'm sure Madame Longbottom informed you. He'll be going with Draco to visit some more of his friends tomorrow."

"Excellent, excellent!" Albus said cheerfully, then his smile faded. "But, I fear I do not come here for an idle visit. While I am glad that Mr. Potter has been happy with you, I'm afraid I must return him to his relatives as soon as possible. Though I'm not so cruel as to deprive a boy of a promised play date, so I can wait to pick him up until he gets back from his visit." Lucius rose.

"His relatives!" Lucius hissed. "You can't be serious! They are muggles. They are _animals_ of the worst sort!"

Dumbledore met his gaze. "If you are serious about collaborating with me, you must respect my views on muggles."

"And I will, so long as you are not forcing a young boy into an abusive home!"

"Abusive?" Dumbledore said in surprise. "Who said anything about abuse?"

" ** _I_** did, _Albus_ ," Lucius said quietly. "That boy has scars up and down the length of arms and legs. I shudder to think of what the rest of his body looks like. He had trouble eating even the smallest amounts, he hides food in his room, he flinches whenever someone besides Draco gets too close and he barely sleeps. If that doesn't spell out abuse _headmaster_ than why does this boy act so?" he demanded angrily.

"I'm glad you've come to care for the child, Lucius," Albus said, entirely brushing over the situation. "But he really must return to his family."

"Why?"  
"For reasons I am unable to divulge. Just trust that his safety, his very life, is at stake." Lucius seethed.

"Why must he leave _now_?"

"The sooner the better."

"For how long?"

"The rest of the summer, unless you'd be willing to take him back for the last two weeks?"

"More than willing," Lucius snapped. Then he seemed to remember himself, putting back on his cool, Slytherin facade. "I'll not leave my son's betrothed with people who do not treasure him like he deserves for any longer than _absolutely necessary_."

Dumbledore stood, clapping his hands. "Excellent!" he said yet again. "Severus will we here to pick him up the day after tomorrow!" Lucius nodded stiffly. Dumbledore showed himself out. Narcissa strode into the room moments later, looking distraught, having heard the whole thing.

"Lucius," she began.

"I know," Lucius replied. "Don't worry, darling. If I were to allow this I'd be unfit of the name Malfoy."

********1047*******

The older Malfoy's were acting strange all morning. Lucius tried smiling at him over breakfast, which just made Sherlock feel very awkward. Mycroft seemed just as confused about his father's behavior. Narcissa insisted on picking out Sherlock's outfit, then brushing his hair out with gentle hands and a golden brush. They both seemed to go out of their way to be nice, and it was starting to freak him out.

"Do you think Dumbledore said something to them?" Sherlock asked his brother as they were getting ready to go.

"I haven't got a clue," Mycroft said as he pulled on his shoes. "But I don't think they'd be acting nearly as accommodating if they knew who we're spending the day with." Sherlock gave a little snort as he shrugged his favored coat onto his shoulders. "But, hurry. We'll be late. Madame Longbottom is expecting us any moment." Sherlock nodded, then followed his brother out to the receiving room, where Narcissa was waiting for them.

Lady Malfoy kissed Draco's cheek and then caressed Sherlock's unruly hair fondly. "Behave, boys," she said lightly, though there was underlying tension in her stance and tone that neither of the "boys" missed. "And remember to mind your manners."

"Yes, mother," Draco said placating with a smile. "See you in a bit."

"Thank you, Lady Malfoy," she raised an eyebrow at Sherlock. "Narcissa." She smiled at him, then took the small decorative box of Floo Powder down off the mantle to give them easier access. "Longbottom Manor!" Sherlock said loudly and clearly, throwing the pinch of powder down onto the base of the flames.

Lady Longbottom was already waiting for them with Neville, who was holding a wrapped parcel in his hands. "Hello there, young Harry," Lady Longbottom said warmly, despite forgetting his preferred name. "Ah, and Mr. Malfoy, too. Excellent. You boys have fun now, though" she turned to look sternly at Neville. "You really must learn to get over your fear of Flooing alone, Neville. You won't always have such accommodating friends willing to go out of their way to go along side you!"

"Yes," Sherlock said as politely as he was able (which wasn't all that much at the moment. "He will" And he grabbed Neville by the arm and took another pinch of Floo Powder from the bowl Augusta Longbottom was holding.

"Thank you for letting us use your Floo," said Draco with a smile, since he had a reputation to uphold, as Sherlock shouted out "The Burrow!" dragging Neville along with him.

It had taken a bit of planning on the children's part to get everything worked out. But children made the best strategists, particuarily children raised in stern and constricting environments. Which is why the Malfoy's thought that today Sherlock and Mycroft were spending the day at Longbottom Manor, while Lady Longbottom thought that the two of them were spending the day at the Burrow with Neville, and only stopped by because of Neville's (nonexistent) fear of Floo Travel. And the Weasley's thought that the two brothers had spent the night at Neville's prior, and only needed to swing by so that Mr. Weasley could drop them off with the Grangers, who would be taking them to the Creevy residence.

And the Grangers knew nothing. Nothing at all.

Meanwhile, they knew they wouldn't be discovered because since the Malfoys were a Dark family, they wouldn't willingly asscociate with the Weasleys, Longbottoms or (heaven's forbid) the Grangers. The Grangers had no way of contacting the wizarding world, because the owl they'd bought was currently away (Gremione had made sure to place a rather large order of random books the night before, to be payed for by Sherlock and Mycroft). The Weasleys wouldn't contact Lady Longbottom, because Molly would be embarrassed about using their family owl, Errol, to contact such a well-to-do person. And they didn't worry about Lady Longbottom because Neville had assured his friends that his grandmother cared so little about actually communicating with anyone that she hadn't sent an owl to anyone in nearly ten years, save for any shopping orders she made.

"Harry, dear!" Molly cried when Sherlock and Neville stumbled out of their rather cramped fireplace. "And Neville, too! Oh, hello, hello! Are either of you hungry? I haven't put away the breakfast food yet" she waved and offering hand at the table that was still laden with a plate of bacon and warm biscuits piled had on a tray. Sherlock smelled gravy from the direction of the kitchen.

"Thank you, but Narcissa already fed us," Sherlock said stiffly, craning his neck to try and find John in the happy clutter that was the Burrow. However, he only saw Ginny and Percy. The latter of which waved and smiled warmly at the three boys now standing in front of the fireplace, as he worked on what seemed to be a rather detailed Potion Essay. Ginny barely looked up from her plate before her whole face flushed red. Sherlock made a mental note to have John take a look at his sister later, just in case she was coming down with some strange wizarding disease.

"Sherlock!" cried a delighted voice. "Excellent timing, I just received an owl from Charlie. You remember Charlie, don't you, kiddo?" Sherlock smiled at Arthur as he strode in, a slightly wrinkled envelope and parchment piece held in his hands.

"Of course," said Sherlock, then a voice in his head (Whether it was John of Aeldin, he wasn't quite certain) prodded him, telling him not to be rude. He paused for half an instant, trying to think of something that might be considered less "not good" than _He helped me smuggle a dragon out of Hogwarts_. "How is he?"

"In perfect health and as crazy as ever," Arthur laughed. "He asked me to remind you about his invitation for you and your friends. He said that you'd expressed interest in seeing the dragon reserve he works at. You thinking about going into Dragon Training, Sherlock?"

Sherlock shrugged. "It's one possibility of many. It definitely wouldn't be boring." Arthur chuckled at that.

"He also says Francine says hello," Arthur said, squinting at the parchment in his hands.

"Francis is a girl?" Sherlock asked, somewhat surprised. Ginny looked up at this with a strange expression on her face. She actually looked like she was about to say something. Sherlock turned to look at her, curious because he hadn't heard her speak before (or if she had, he'd deleted it). But before she could say anything twin shouts of "RONNIE YOUR BOYFRIEND'S HERE!" rang out through the house.

"If it isn't our favorite genius"

"Our little prodigy"

"The baby Professor"

"Ickle Lord Potter"

"Soon to be ruler of this land"

"Of this nation"

"Of the world"

"Our dear savior!"

"Our beautiful angel!"

"Our soon-to-be-but-not-really-baby-brother-in-law!"

"Our—" whatever else Sherlock was, he didn't find out, because George was suddenly silenced by a throw pillow being thrown at his head. "Oy!"

"John!" Sherlock smiled, then frowned. "What's in the box?" John had sped down the stairs at the twin's cry. He held in his hands a wrapped box, tied with a red ribbon. John gave him a longsuffering look that told Sherlock he'd deleted something he probably shouldn't have.

"The new camera," John said wearily. "That we picked out…together…a week ag—oh, why do I even bother!" Arthur chuckled and pressed a kiss to the top of his smallest son's head.

Soon they were all ready to go and piled in a car that Arthur had been tinkering on in his spare time. With a bit of spell work, the carriage was expanded enough for them all to sit comfortably. Normally, the drive would have taken a little over three hours, but thanks to Arthur's "adjustments" the flying car only took a little less than an hour to reach the outskirts of London.

Then came the exciting part "…no, Dad! Turn left here! Here! Oh, you missed it."

"RED LIGHT RED LIGHT RED…oh, well."

"NO! Don't do a U Turn!"

"THAT'S NOT A STREET!"

In the end they made it to the Granger residence in one piece, if looking a little green. Nevertheless, they thanked Mr. Weasley as they piled out of the car. Before he drove off, Arthur handed John a little toy dog, which he informed his son solemnly was a port key, and that they all had to be holding onto it when it was activated, or someone might be left behind.

Then, finally, they rang the Granger's doorbell. "I hope Colin appreciates all the hoops we had to jump through," Neville muttered under his breath as they waited. Greg opened the door, wearing cargo shorts and a leather jacket over a T shirt. "You shaved your head!" Neville said in surprise.

Greg ran a hand through her hair. The right side had been shorn close to the skin, but the rest was still a good few inches long, and able to flop attractively across her head. "Thought I'd try something new. Come on in! Mum's just looking for her keys. We can leave in a second."

"We're going in another Ottymobble?" Neville cringed. John patted his back.

"Don't worry," he said comfortingly. "It's not usually that bad. Dad's just _really_ bad a driving."

"Legally speaking, he shouldn't be driving…or flying at all." Mycroft said dryly.

Greg frowned. "Flying? You took brooms all the way here?"

"No" answered Mycroft and Sherlock at the same time.

What seemed like an age later, Mrs. Granger left them on the front steps of a cheery yellow house that Sherlock thought very much fitted the personality of their bubbly friend. He knocked on the door, plastering a charming smile on his face. He'd learned by now that he was more likely to make John happy if he smiled in public. Sure enough, John was looking at him approvingly out of the corner of his eyes.

There was the sound of raised voices from inside, and several thuds that sounded suspiciously like somebody falling down a flight of stairs before a voice declared "I'm okay!"

The door opened revealing a little boy who had Colin's button nose, but red hair and brown eyes. "HI!" he said happily. "Follow me, Colin's setting up the play room!" Then the boy, who Sherlock assumed to be 'Denis' shot off into the house. Greg had no problem just striding into the house, and normally Sherlock wouldn't either, but something made him hesitate.

"Sherlock?" John asked quietly. Sherlock shook himself and took John's hand. He followed the others, deducing the home as he went.

Father is messy, but good-natured. Mother, meticulous and stern, but kind. Boys, rambunctious and messy like father, making Mother stressed constantly. Younger brother and Father are fond of sports. Mother shows no or neutral interest in them, unless she has a personal interest in the players, much like Colin. Happy but strained family dynamic. Mother unhappily divorced from previous husband, married the step-father during bout of depression.

Sherlock felt the dread in his stomach increase. "Are you okay, Sherlock?" John whispered into his ear. Sherlock nodded and pulled John faster towards the sound of Colin happily greeting everyone. They soon found themselves in a playroom of sorts. It was a large, square area with mountains of toys piled up on shelves near the walls. In the center of the room were two large tables laden with birthday presents and the sort of paper dishes that was customary to use for Muggle birthday parties.

"…we'll be going to a laser tag place as soon as everybody gets here, and I talked Dad into taking us to the museum like we were talking about. And then my Uncle Jeremy is going to come and he's always lots of fun…" Colin was babbling to anyone who would listen, looking like he was on cloud nine. All of the Gryffindor First years were already there, except for Lavender and Seamus. Several Hufflepuffs had come (Sherloc still didn't know their names, except for Susan, but she was unnaturally loud for a puff). Three Ravenclaws were examining the television in the corner of the room, and even several Slytherin First years, including Blaise and Theo Nott, who had both used methods similar to Mycroft and Sherlock to be able to come.

As soon as they walked in, Blaise made a bee-line straight for them. "I've never been to a muggle house before," he said by way of greeting. "It's different than I expected."

"What did you expect?" John asked out of curiosity.

"…something not quite this…clean," Blaise said slowly. "And…the lights are all incredibly bright. And it smells weird."

"That's canned spray," Sherlock explained. "Muggles use it to cover up the stench of people." Greg snorted, but said nothing.

"Alright, children, how many people are we waiting for?" asked a feminine voice.

A very familiar voice.

A voice that sent shivers of fear down Sherlock's spine. Mycroft and John both tensed as well. Sherlock instinctively placed himself between his John and the source of that voice. Colin answered his mother. "Just five or so, but Seamus said he'd be a little late." Slowly, Sherlock turned around, and it was undeniably confirmed as to who Colin was speaking to.

"You-Know-Who" Sherlock muttered under his breath. Slowly, Mary Creevy Nee Morstan's eyes widened in disbelief. "She's back."


	20. Truly and Completely

**Is it weird that I've been purposefully spacing out the story so that this big major part of the plot would fall on the number twenty? (20 is such a pretty number, so neat and tidy). Anyway, thank you all for the reviews! A lot of them made me laugh, and I really needed to giggle this week. Thank you guys, so much. I hope you enjoy this chapter!**

 **Yes, so the many people who asked: Colin is John's son. Denis is not.**

 **I have decided that Moriarty will** ** _probably_** **make an appearance…but I haven't completely decided yet. It all just depends on how it fits with the plot…if I can…just figure out what the plot is…You see, this started out as a one shot…just a basic idea of "Hey! What if Sherlock and John were reincarnated as wizards!?" but then a bunch of people liked it and my muses just kept running. But I feel obligated to tell you that I have absolutely NO idea where this is going…I'm just…writing with the flow, I guess. So, if you're expected some profound story with deep meaning and symbolism (one, why are you reading fanfiction? Go pick up some Tolkien) and two, uh…sorry.**

 **Anyway, thank you guys so much! Your reviews and PMs mean a lot to me!**

 **May the gods be ever in your favor!**

Severus woke up in a pretty horrible mood. It started out with his forgetting to close his shades the night before, which resulted in the harsh morning light glaring in his face until he could muster up the energy to crawl out of bed. After he'd viciously yanked the window shades closed and cursed them so that they'd be impossible to move (he'd probably regret that later) he stumbled into his kitchen cabinet for the heavily caffeinated potion he liked to dump into his morning tea. Only, to discover that he'd forgotten to restock. When he tried to get dressed, he discovered that his casual robes needed replacement as several burns and holes from the acidic potion's he worked with decorated the cloth. And _then_ a blasted owl had to start rapping at his window.

Severus Snape was _not_ a morning person. In fact, he was in such a bad mood that when he saw the bloody bird he was of half a mind to hex the dratted thing to kingdom come. The only thing that stayed his wand was the fact that he recognized the Ministry seal on the envelope the owl was bearing. With a growl he pushed open the window, letting it fly in, settling down on the back of his couch.

Irritation being replaced by curiosity, Severus wondered why on earth the Ministry would be contacting him. He hadn't been involved in anything dubious. As of only thing he could think of is if one of his Slytherins had been caught doing something suspicious and he'd been called in to testify against them. With dread, he reached for the envelope and snatched it away from the bird quickly, as it tried to peck at his hand.

"Get!" Snape barked at it. "Out!" He swatted a hand at it, only to be pecked rather harshly on the thumb. Cursing loudly, he whipped out his wand at threw a stinging hex at it. He would have done something more…permanent, but he suspected there were laws against that sort of thing. It didn't really matter anyway, as he ended up missing. Severus glared after it as it soared unharmed out the window.

Then he turned his attention to the envelope and broke the seal on it.

" _Mister Severus Tobias Snape,_ " the letter began. " _As proxy of one Lord Potter-Peverell, heir Black, you are hereby asked to appear for the disciplinary hearing of one Jedidiah Syth, half-blood, who shall appear before the Wizengamot on the twenty-ninth of June for apparating drunk in the company of three unauthorized muggles and a cow. Information shall be provided prior to the hearing._

 _Signed, Head of the Department of Law Enforcement,_

 _Madame Amelia Bones"_

Severus blinked at the letter, unbelieving. What in devil's name? Proxy…for Lord… ** _Sherlock_** **.** Gritting his teeth, he tore across the room to dig angrily through his writing desk, in search for a quill and scroll, with the intent to write a scathing letter to the little brat. Then he paused and looked back at the paper. Curiosity and ire warred between him but then the third part of exasperated fondness won out. If he accepted, it would mean a bit of honor restored to him. Perhaps enough for him to qualify for the Prince Lordship, which he'd made unavailable to himself when he'd signed his life away to Lord Voldemort. At the time he hadn't regretted it, but as the years went by and Voldemort became less and less…him…well…

Severus studied the letter again, then picked up his quill and was getting ready to jot down a rather angry thank-you note, when his Floo lit up and Lucius stumbled out, looking as ruffled as Severus had ever seen him.

"Severus," Lucius said, hesitating slightly which started to worry Severus. "We have to talk…it's..." Lucius took a deep breath and scanned the small abode as if to ensure they were truly along. "It's Sherlock." A boulder of dread dropped to the pit of Severus' gut.

Great Merlin's Ghost, Severus hated Mondays.

******1047******

Mary Morstan hadn't lived a happy life. Her childhood was horrid, filled with abuse and neglect. Her teen years were a blur of substance abuse and being on the run. Her early adulthood was dedicated to becoming a human weapon. And for years after that, that's all she was: a weapon.

And then she met John Watson. John. The man was everything she'd always looked for in a husband. Originally, she'd been hired to tail him and ensure he didn't kill himself out of depression, and Mary had found herself rather unimpressed by that. How pathetic could someone be? But then she actually met him. Quite by accident, he wasn't supposed to have seen her. But she lost him in the crowd one day during a parade about four weeks after she first took on the assignment. She found him beating up a mugger in an alley, a young girl and her little brother cowering behind him.

She'd been the one to call the police, and when they arrived she watched in confusion as the officers greeted John warmly, almost lovingly as though he were a close family member. The DI even embraced John, though the ex-soldier stoically pulled away. The DI sighed and placed a kind hand on John's shoulder before walking away. John, looked like he was trying not to choke on a lemon. Then, almost without realizing she was doing it, she walked up to him to ask him if he was alright.

Emotionlessly, John said he was and thank you very much for asking. Mary wasn't having it, though, and almost dragged him across the street to get a cup of coffee. John accepted, if a bit reluctantly. He kept staring out the window at the street, and when Mary asked him what he was looking at, he gave her a smile that seemed more heartbroken than happy and said "Ghosts".

Mary was intrigued. The next day she applied for a position as a nurse at the clinic John was working at, and four weeks later they ran into each other on shift. John seemed genuinely surprised, Mary pretended to be. Two days later, they went out to dinner together, and John seemed to try to be a good company. But he was distracted. About halfway through the meal, Mary asked. "Who is she?"

"Pardon?" John asked, his eyes tense and smile tenser.

"Your mind obviously isn't here; you're thinking about someone else. Did she leave you then? Unhappy break-up?" Mary guessed. She hadn't been given a lot of information about her target. Her employer had apparently thought if she couldn't figure it out for herself, she didn't deserve to know and, besides, she wasn't the only one keeping an eye on Watson.

John's fake smile fell away and Mary counted it as a win. He swallowed dryly and cast his eyes down at the floor. He opened his mouth and a quiet sound came from him, but that was it. He closed his mouth, swallowed once more, and tried again. "You're rather observant, aren't you?"

"I like to notice things," Mary agreed vaguely. John closed his eyes like her words physically hurt him. Mary made a mental note of him.

"He" John said. And Mary was surprised, he hadn't thought John swung that way. "It's not like what you're thinking. Not really. I did…He was my best friend. An absolute maniac. Completely bonkers. But a genius. He…he…he's…we…" John stopped talking again…shaking his head. Mary reached across the table and picked up his hand.

"I had three best friends," Mary said quietly. "They were my _best friends_ in the _whole world_. For years, it was us against everyone else. We did everything together. And then, one day. Something happened, I'm still not quite sure what…but all three of them…they died that day." Mary fell silent for a moment, remembering, then asking herself why she was telling him this, she looked back up and met his eyes. "I understand, John. I do. It feels like I was gutted. Like I'm missing pieces."

"Yeah" John said hoarsely. The rest of the meal was quiet, but not uncomfortable. They ate and paid their bill. Then John took her home. When they saw each other the next day at work, Mary smiled at him. And John smiled back.

Time would show that John Watson was a good man, in every way. He was kind, but firm. Strong and gentle. Intelligent (he had to be, to become a doctor of his caliber) but he tended to see things far more simply than most people. He was protective and loving, and warm. Often times he'd grow distant, things would trigger memories of his friend, Sherlock. But Mary didn't care. Sherlock was dead and John was hers.

Until he wasn't.

John was going to propose; she knew he was. She could see the outline of the box in his pocket. She could see him trying to work up his nerve, so she just sat there, smiling encouragingly, already knowing she would say 'yes'. Then a _really bad_ French accented interrupted them, asking about wine.

At first, Mary had no idea what was going on. Just that John went as pale as a sheet and decked the man across the schnozzle. After they got thrown out (of several places), John had begun to sob. Mary hadn't seen him cry, never. But suddenly John was breaking apart and then that blasted man was wrapping his gangling arms around _her_ John, pressing his face into John's hair, hiding his own wet eyes.

And yet, John married her anyway. At first, she thought this was a sign of her victory over the detective. But she soon realized that John was just going through the motions, because he was a nice guy who didn't want to hurt Mary after having lead her on for so long. Then, at the wedding, Sherlock first the first time showed the entire room just how much he loved John, and the two men embraced. Mary had sat there, looking like she thought it was just as precious as everyone else in the room as Sherlock looked around at the emotional crowd he'd moved with his speech and cautiously asked John "Did I do something wrong?"

Honestly, it was only a matter of time before she shot him. But had she known about…she would have waited. And then maybe John would have stayed. She should have killed Sherlock. She could have! Would have except she loved John, and she knew Sherlock dying (again) would have crushed him (again). But then John would have never known, and he would still be here with her and their child. Alive.

But as soon as he realized it was his own wife who pulled the trigger, he looked at her with a face so full of _loathing_. She'll never forget it. Not as long as she lived.

" _You forgave_ him _!_ " she cried as John told her to leave, standing there with his arms crossed over his chest there at Baker Street. " _He_ _ **hurt**_ _you. For YEARS and you forgave him!_ " Sherlock winced, hearing that. He was standing awkwardly several feet away, half in half out of the kitchen holding a cup of tea that was meant for John, even though according to his doctors (all of them) he should be in bed, recovering.

" _Exactly, Mary,_ " John had said calmly. " _He hurt me. He did. Sherlock hurt me. But you_ " John spat at her. " _you hurt_ him _. And that I cannot and will never forgive. Get. Out. And don't come back."_

Sherlock's brother ensured that the divorced was finalized before the end of the day. Two weeks later she realized she was pregnant. She tried to contact John, KNOWING that if he knew they had made a child together, he would take her back, if only for the baby. But every time she tried to get close to them, Sherlock's brother's men would keep her away. Several times even threatening her at gun point. In desperation, she tried leaving voicemail and text messages and emails. But John never showed any sign of having received them. She didn't know if it was Mycroft or Sherlock deleting it.

Four months later, John was dead.

She had sobbed and sobbed and considered aborting the baby. But she couldn't. Couldn't. It was the last piece of John she'd ever have, and she _did_ love him. Truly and completely. Just as much as she'd hated Sherlock for taking him away. Truly and completely. She was still pregnant when she met Peter. Peter was kind and gentle, not John but something. Mary didn't love him, but he was taken with her. Colin was born and Peter doted over him, treating the baby like his own.

Peter looked nothing like John. Where John was blonde and muscular and slightly on the short side, Peter was tall and willowy and redheaded. She told him she was a widower. He believed her. Peter, impulsive and excitable Peter, proposed not even three months later. She said yes, simply because it would better benefit her and John's child more than if she said no. Still, she grew to care about him, even if she didn't truly love him like she had John, and little Denis was born into a seemingly happy family two years later.

Peter loved both of the boys, and adored her. She was content, if not happy. The boys were both hardy and happy. Life was…good. And then Colin became a wizard. Or, apparently he'd always been a wizard, and Mary couldn't help but wonder if he'd gotten his magic from his Dad (even though later, Denis, his half-brother, showed signs of magic as well). The year Colin turned eleven, her little piece of John was whisked away to Scotland to Hogwarts, School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.

And he wrote home with tales of his new friends. Among which were " _Two funny kids name John and Sherlock. They're really neat! Sherlock's super smart and John's really nice! They're best friends, but I think they're my friends too!"_ And her heart just **stopped**.

Eventually, through the letters she realized that the two boys were just fans of her late-husband and the consulting detective, even if they share a few vague personality traits. After all, how ridiculous was it to think it was _actually_ John? It was just a weird coincidence that got painful after Colin received that blasted book about _The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes_ for Christmas.

But she let him keep it, because his father had written those words even if it was a stranger who'd complied them. And she'd even agreed to let him invite his little friends over for his birthday party.

And then she saw them. True, they were tiny; the same age as her own son. Their son. But it was unmistakably John and Sherlock. Sherlock even wore an identical, miniature, coat! She stood there, gaping. Dimly, she realized that Colin was looking at her strangely. John's eyes were wide with horror. Sherlock and the boy and girl standing close to him looked…calculating.

She swallowed her emotions and said "Sorry, you look like old friend of mine. The resemblance is _uncanny_!" John's frozen expression didn't change, but instead it shifted over to where Colin stood.

"Quite alright, Mrs. Creevy," said mini-Sherlock, and it took everything in Mary not to reach down and strangle that tiny throat. "By the way, me, my brother and my friend here had a question about the gift we three bought Colin. But we don't want to ask you about it here, you know, surprises, would it be okay if we talked to you about it in private?" John's head swiveled over to look at Sherlock, and the platinum blond boy (his brother, Mary guessed) seemed to nod solemnly.

"Of course, of course!" Mary said with forced cheer. "Right this way, we can talk about it in my room!"

As she led the three boys down the hall, Mary couldn't help but feel like she was walking to her doom.

*****1047******

"Lucius" Severus greeted uncertainly, rising from his desk. "Is Mr. Potter alright?" The Malfoy Lord shook his head, fists clenching and magic pulsating anxiously. "Where is he? What's wrong?"

Lucius held up a hand. "As of right now, he's in perfect health. I saw to that myself before I came."

"Than what—"

"However," Lucius cut him off, which normally would have made Severus livid, but he was too concerned to even register the slight. "If your dear Headmaster has his way, he would see Sherlock returned to those abusive… _creatures_."

"The abuse has been confirmed?"

"You knew?"

"Suspected," Severus corrected him. "Lucius, I'm not in a position to do anything. Why—"

"You're to come pick him up and take him back to the muggles tomorrow," Lucius cut across him again. "Dumbledore told me himself. I'm sure we can think of _something_!"

Severus was quiet. "I could bring him here." Lucius looked around Severus' small house in Spinner's End, surprised. "Dumbledore wouldn't expect me to care enough about the spawn of my childhood rival to bring him into my own home. But…he would know if the wards keep weakening."

"Wards? What wards? Is that why he's so adamant about Sherlock leaving us?"

"Yes," Severus answered quietly. "The night Lily died, her magic wove protectively around Potter which kept him alive. Dumbledore used this to place bloodwards around Privet Drive before the magic naturally dissipated. If it had worked, it would have been strong enough to keep the Dark Lord himself away."

"If it had worked?"

"It's weak and weakening," Severus growled. "In order for the magic to truly take, Potter must feel safe and call the area home. But if what you say is true and Potter _is_ being abused…"

Lucius swore. Then his eyes widened. "What if you take up the ward stone and put in on the grounds of Malfoy Manor? We are distantly related, through his father. The blood wards should hold. They'd grow stronger, but not too much as to arouse suspicion as he will be primarily living here."

"I'm not sure if it will work," Severus said, massaging his eyes. "Dumbledore said that it had to be Lily's family, because Lily was the one to give her life for him."

Lucius frowned. "Didn't Potter Sr. also die for Sherlock that night?" Severus froze.

"Morgana, I'm an idiot."

"So it would work?"

"Maybe," Severus said. "Just maybe, but if we aren't careful, Dumbledore would know the stone is being moved. It would take a _master…"_ Severus trailed off and looked at his friend with contemplative eyes.

"What now?"

"William Weasley?"

"I beg your pardon?"  
"The eldest Weasley is a warding prodigy. The Goblins snapped him up right out of Hogwarts and shipped him off to Egypt to stabilize the pyramids. If _anyone_ could do it, it would be William." Lucius grimaced.

"I cannot go to him for help, you will have to."

"Why?"

"The feud, Sev, the feud!" Lucius pulled at his hair. "Though I'm of half a mind to break it anyway," he admitted. "Because of little Sherlock's relationship with the youngest Weasley. If I try to cut off communication after he becomes a Malfoy I'll have a revolt on my hands. 'John' is all he ever talks about."

"Becomes a Malfoy? You want to adopt him?"

"No, well, in a way. Dumbledore has agreed to bind him to Draco with a marriage contract." Lucius explained. Severus decided just to not say anything about that, instead returning to the issue of the feud.

"What even started the feud, why continue it?" Severus asked.

Lucius sighed and sat himself down on Severus' couch. "Four generations ago, the eldest Weasley son was betrothed to a Malfoy daughter. But, the Weasley broke the engagement in order to chase after a Muggle woman. In retaliation, the Malfoy family humiliated the Weasley's by buying up their assets and destroying their reputations. Within a year, they lost Lordship and Ancient House status. They then cursed the Malfoy line with the…they call it the pruning curse."

"Pruning curse?"

"Crude, I know. In that it slims down the family tree. By this time, the Malfoy daughter had married another and was expecting her first child. The wife of the Lord Malfoy was expecting her second. The curse…it causes there to be but one heir, nothing more. That Malfoy daughter had a miscarriage. It was discarded as an accident, but then Lady Malfoy also lost her child. When, ten years later, they were unsuccessful at having any other Malfoy children in any branch of the family, the feud was declared and days later the muggle wife of the Weasley patriarch was found dead."

"I see," Severus said. "And in order to break the feud?"

"I'd only have to aid in restoring the Weasley family to their old status, and they in return would have to lift the curse."

"…a good way to start would be hiring the boy."

******1047*******

The door closed behind the group. "Alright," Sherlock clapped his hands, making Mary flinch. "Mary, it's good to see you doing well. How have you been?" John felt rather horrified at first when Sherlock just out and out said it. But then he resigned himself to the fact that Sherlock probably had a plan. And if Sherlock didn't, John knew Mycroft would.

"So…" she said quietly. "It's…it's really you?" She looked at them all uncertainly, lingering quite a bit longer on John. "John?" John took a step back and Sherlock gripped his hand tightly. Mary's heart clenched, seeing how young they all were.

"Yes," John said faintly. "But enough of that…tell me…" John took a deep breath. "Tell me, is Colin…" John couldn't finish the sentence. Mary didn't know what do feel. A day ago, she would have given anything to have John alive and knowing that Colin was his son. But now…now John was just a boy.

"He's yours," Mary said quietly. "Ours." John was standing very still. "I tried to tell you, John," she said, tears gathering in her eyes. She hadn't cried once since John died. "I swear it! But I was never able to get close enough! It's all his brother's fault!" Mary flung an accusing finger at Sherlock. John turned to look at the third boy, who Mary hadn't been able to recognize.

"Is that true, Mycroft?" John asked, looking betrayed. "Did you know I had a son?"

The third boy, Mycroft, looked lost and incredibly guilty. "I knew that's what she was saying she wanted to meet with you over, John," he said quietly. "But I'd been certain she was lying. She showed no outward changes in appearance or activity. She bought no maternity clothes. She never went in for doctor's visits, and…Please understand, she'd just tried to kill my brother." Mycroft said stepping closer to the other two boys. "If I have known she was telling the truth I would have told you. But I didn't want to give her a second chance at killing Sherlock."

John wanted to be angry at Mycroft. He really did. But he didn't expect anything less from Sherlock's older brother. But there was still the matter of John _having_ a son. A son who'd grown up without him.

"Does he know?" John addressed Mary. Mary hesitated.

"Know who his father is? N-no. He only knows that his father passed away before I met Peter. I never gave him a name." John nodded, feeling a weight rest on his heart. His son didn't even know who he was. And, oh, he'd treated Colin so horribly this semester.

"And Denis?"

"Mine and Peter's" Mary said quietly. "John, I—"

"No," he said coldly. "I don't want to talk to you anymore. Ignore us for the rest of the day, and then you'll never see any of us again."

"But, John!"

"John," Sherlock ignored her and looked directly at him. "Are you sure there's nothing else you wish to ask her?" John was confused. He shook his head. "Mycroft, restrain her." Instantly, Mycroft's wand was in his hand and thick purple ropes were binding Mary. A gag was even placed in her mouth.

"Are you crazy?" John hissed. "We can't use magic out of school!"

"You can't" Mycroft said with a slow smirk. "My wand has no trace. Perks of being a Malfoy." John managed a smile back at him, and saw relief in Mycroft's eyes.

"What are you going to do?" John asked Sherlock as his friend drew his hand away and approached Mary, who was staring at them with wide, terrified eyes.

"I friend taught me a trick I've been meaning to try," Sherlock said distantly as he knelt in front of John's ex-wife. "Don't worry, it won't hurt her." So saying, Sherlock peered into Mary's eyes and whispered " _Legilimens"_. Aeldin had been teaching him about the mind arts ever since Sherlock had found a tome in the mirror about it. Aeldin had apparently been a Master at it in life. It was one of the way he kept his minions in line.

Sherlock did his best to be gentle, more for Colin's sake than anything, as he searched for every single memory about John Hamish Watson. Every time he came across one, he destroyed it viciously, much the same way he deleted particularly unpleasant memories in his own head. For Sherlock, who had spent two lifetimes keeping his brain neat and tidy, Mary's brain was filled with a disgusting amount of clutter. Even still it was as easy as strolling into somebody else's house, piling all the cook books up on a table, a destroying them with a (mentally conjured) flamethrower.

He took a great deal of enjoyment from utterly obliterating the memory of John and Mary's wedding night.

Before long, Sherlock was leaving Mary's mind and Mycroft had the ropes vanished in an instant. Mary sat on the floor on a bit of a daze. "Mrs. Creevy?" Sherlock asked, using the same tone he adopted when talking to Narcissa. "Mrs. Creevy are you alright?" Mary blinked once, then twice.

"Oh," she said, his eyes slightly unfocused. "Sorry, what were you saying, dear?" Then she frowned. "What was your name, again?"

Sherlock smiled at her. "I'm Sherlock. Here for Colin's party, remember? I was asking if you think he'd like a new…" Sherlock trailed off, trying to remember what it was John had said they'd bought their friend.

"Camera," Mycroft finished helpfully. "You got him a camera."

Mary's eyes cleared somewhat with understanding. "Ah! Yes, of course! He's told me all about you two. And I'm sure he'd love whatever it is you've gotten him. Come along now! Let's get back to the party, I'm sure Colin will be wondering where you've gotten to!" John was feeling a little unbalanced, unsure of what had just transpired.

"I made her forget," Sherlock whispered in John's ear. "I was careful, she's unharmed." John nodded as the three of them followed the oblivious Mary back to the main room, where the rest of the guests had arrived while they had been…preoccupied. Colin beamed at them and waved them over.

"Just in time! We're going to be heading over to the Oof-!" Colin was interrupted by John throwing two slightly trembling arms around the slightly shorter boy. "John, are you okay?" John nodded, hugging him a bit tighter then letting go, smiling tightly.

"Yeah, just," John ran a hand through his hair. "Happy Birthday, Colin." Colin smiled at him. By the end of the day, Colin was feeling extrememly confused as to John's sudden change in behavior. Whereas John had been slightly shy towards him before, how John seemed to always be at his shoulder, asking him if he needed anything. It was nice. Colin hadn't had any friends before going to Hogwarts. As John hugged him one last time before leaving that night, Colin wondered to himself if this was what having a best friend was like.

*****1047******

Earlier that day, Arthur Weasley was shocked to find Lucius Malfoy standing at the door of the Burrow. Good manners forced him to greet his unexpected visitor with a smile, though it was obviously strained, as he opened the door. "Hullo…Mr. Malfoy," Arthur said uncertainly. "To what do I owe this…visit." Lucius returned the smile, just as unsteadily.

"It is out of concern for Sherlock Potter," Lucius said quietly. "I must ask for your help, in order to prevent an innocent child being sent back to an abusive home."

Arthur felt familiar ire rising up "Just because they are muggles—" "That has nothing to do with it, Arthur," Lucius snapped. Mr. Weasley felt his anger fall away.

"W-what?"

Lucius sighed. "May I come in?"

"…of course, Lord Malfoy."

*******1047********

Dumbledore looked up from his leisure reading when he felt the wards being triggered on his gargoyle. Somebody was coming up the stairs. Waving his wand at the window, it revealed his guest to be none other than Severus Snape. Surprized but pleased, Dumbledore cheerily called out for Severus just "Come in, come in, dear boy!" when he came within a foot of the door. The door was opened and revealed the Potion's Master, who was wearing a very troubled look.

Dumbledore frowned. "Whatever is the matter, Severus?"

"Headmaster," Severus said, coming to stand in front of his desk. "I have been thinking about Potter," he hesitated and Dumbledore gestured for him to go on. "If what we fear is true, and Voldemort I really back…I ask for permission to seek a Fidelious Charm be placed over Privet Drive." Dumbledore's eyes widened. "I offer myself as secret keeper, I'll not trust Sherlock's safety with anyone but myself." Dumbledore grinned.

"Severus," he said delightedly, but patronizing as though speaking to a child who had just shown him a colorful scribble. "I'm so pleased you've come to care for him. Of course you have my permission! It shouldn't take long to get someone from the ministry to go out and place it. In fact, it should be done by tomorrow afternoon. Surely you don't mind sticking around for a few hours?"

"Sir?"

"Oh, yes, I haven't asked you yet. Severus, would you please pick Harry up tomorrow? I'd do it myself but I'm far too busy preparing for the school year, dealing with the governors and such. And Cornelius is trying to get one of his people in the DADA position again." Dumbledore leaned back and popped a lemon drop into his mouth. "The boy trusts you, it seems. And obviously you can be trusted to care for him."

"I will, to the best of my ability," said Severus solemnly. "You have my word, Headmaster."

*******1047*********

Owen sat with his mates in the small house their employers had placed them in for their duration in Egypt. They'd just finished a rather hard day in one of the smaller pyramids. One of the muggle tourists had accidently caused a triggering of an ancient curse, and it took their best man ten hours to neutralize it. They were all exhausted. The man in question, Bill, was all but passed out on the table, when a messenger boy came in and told them "Floo call for Mister Weasley!" Bill groaned.

"Probably Mum," he said exhaustedly. "Checking to make sure I've been changing my underwear." The men all chuckled and watched as Bill slumped to the next room to take the call. "Hey Dad!" they heard Bill say with forced energy. "Of course, what do you need? When? Now? Really? No. No. Yeah. Maybe. Sorta. But Dad—! Seriously? Malfoy? Sherlock? What about him? Muggles? Snape? Dad are you feeling okay? But—But—But—No, but—Dad!" The men started laughing again.

Bill walked in some minutes later looking a bit befuddled. "I'm going to be taking my vacation days now, I guess." He said.

"Family trouble?" asked one of the men sympathetically.

"Yeah," said Bill shaking his head. "My Dad's gone insane."

*****1047****

 **Hope you guys liked it! By the way, I'm looking for some quality fics about Avengers or Supernatural, but I'm feeling like I already read all the ones worth reading. Any suggestions?**


	21. Wards and Warding Stones

**I'd like to say that, yes, I know that the common belief about how Harry survived, is either that Lily performed a blood ritual, which came into effect when she gave her life to save him, made possible because Voldemort promised Severus he's spare her. However, Lily was the** ** _good girl_** **at Hogwarts. James, however, was known to be a bit of a bully. He was a prankster, and on top of all that he was a pureblood who had a huge family library at his disposal.**

 **Which one would be more likely to suggest using a blood ritual—a** ** _dark_** **ritual—to protect their son? So, I think that both James AND Lily took part in that ritual, and even though it only took effect when LILY died for Harry, because Voldemort gave her three chances to move, that only** ** _sealed_** **the magic. James' magic and sacrifice were still what powered half of it. With this reasoning, I think it's logical to assume that Potter relatives would have worked just as well as Lily's relatives when it came to the blood wards. If you have any ideas or suggestions about this, feel free to contact me in the comments! Or PM me.**

 **I'd also like to thank my lovely reviewers; you all have been so kind to me! Yeah, I know on a mental level that what Sherlock did to Mary was a bit "not good", but I REALLY never liked her character. So I'm sorry to all you Mary fans out there…but I only started to like Mary right before she was killed, and that's only because she obviously cared about him enough to die for him. So…yeah, sorry, not sorry. Besides, Sherlock could have done WAY worse to her. And now, Mary can live a happy and fulfilling life as a doting wife and mother! Maybe even start up a career that doesn't involve shooting people!**

 **A few people have asked about Sherlock and Mycroft's runes, and what they're for. So, the actual meanings I included in chapter 19, but Sherlock and Mycroft chose them specifically. The runes could have been anything. It is basically the "wedding ring" equivalent of a blood bond, except in the bonding ritual that played out in my head (I tried to write it out, but it just kept ending up so weird…) they're actually connected on a magical level, and the runes act as an anchor. Sort of like how a twin-bond is sometimes portrayed in fanfics. It won't really play a HUGE role in the story over all…but I'm a total rune-geek. And I think that tattoo would look seriously cool….**

 **Sorry this AN was kinda long, onto the show!**

It was late when they finally activated the port key. There, John and Sherlock said their (rather reluctant) good-byes before Flooing to Longbottom Manor, where Augusta was waiting for them. Neville embraced both Sherlock and Mycroft, before the brothers stumbled back into the Floo with a weary "Malfoy Manor" called out. Narcissa was there sitting by the fireplace when they came through, she smiled and stood up.

"How was the visit?" she asked kindly as she bent to kiss her son on the forehead. "I trust you had a good day?" Sherlock and Mycroft both smiled at her and began spinning a story about Neville and a colony of bow truckles they had to chase out of one of the Longbottom greenhouses, managing to blend their two sides of the story the way only brothers with a great deal of practice can. Narcissa was nodding and smiling, obviously humoring them and their only slightly interesting story, when Lucius walked in looking rather grave. But the most surprising thing was probably the fact that he did not walk in alone.

"Professor Snape!" Sherlock said in surprise while Mycroft smiled with a pleased cry of "Uncle!" Severus nodded to his godson and Lady Malfoy before focusing on Sherlock with a grim air. Sherlock frowned, trying to figure out what he could possibly be in trouble for. There's no way they could have figured out it was _he_ who killed Quirrell and stole the stone…perhaps Snape had realized who stolen from his potion ingredient stores. But Sherlock didn't think he'd be in trouble for that: he'd left money and besides he'd needed them for his animagi experiments.

"Sherlock," Lucius addressed him, his voice unusually gentle. Sherlock only grew more alarmed when Lucius knelt before him. Sherlock recalled Lucius asking for a blood sample to send into the healers in place of Sherlock himself actually having to go. Had the healers found he had some sort of incurable disease? Merlin, what would John say?

"Did I…do something?" Sherlock asked warily, carefully gauging the man's face. He was unreasonably relieved when he saw nothing but amusement there.

"No, Sherlock" Lucius laughed a bit. "But…there is something I must discuss with you." Sherlock waited for Lucius to continue. "Dumbledore came, and has informed us that he wants to cut your stay with us short in favor of returning you to your muggle relatives." Sherlock felt all the blood leave his face, leaving him lightheaded. No. No he couldn't. He'd run away to the Burrow. Yes, he could do that. The Weasley's loved him. "Sherlock, breathe!" Sherlock came back to himself and realized he had, in deed, been holding his breath. He took in a gasping lungfull, and belatedly realized that Mycroft looked as ill as Sherlock felt.

"Father you can't send him back!" Mycroft pleaded. "They're muggles! They're _horrible_! Why—" Mycroft was cut off by a fond look thrown at him from his father. Mycroft almost crumpled in relief. "We're not sending him back." It wasn't a question.

"No," Lucius answered anyway. "But we must have you two in the know, just incase you are confronted by Dumbledore."

"But I'm not staying here?" Sherlock asked. There was no reason for Lucius to look so grave if that were the case. "Where are you putting me? I'm I going to go live with my John?" Sherlock was feeling hopeful by the end of this.

It was Severus who answered. "No, brat." He said, though there was no heat in it. Sherlock took in the tightness of his lips and left cheek, and the focus of his eyes, as well as the angle of his eyebrows. Was Severus still annoyed that Sherlock had listed him as his proxy? Possibly. Probably…yeah, he definitely was. "But never fear, I'll ensure you get to visit your henchman."

"I'm staying with you?" Sherlock said in surprise. "You have a house? I thought you lived at Hogwarts!" Narcissa giggled into her sleeve, but tried to cover it up with a sniffle. Severus looked exasperated.

"Yes," Severus said, rolling his eyes to heaven. "I do have a house, and it's relatively near where Dumbledore expects you to be. However you'll be having numerous vists back to Malfoy Manor—"

"For the blood wards," Sherlock finished for him. "Have you already moved the ward stone, then?" Lucius looked confused, probably wondering how Sherlock had known about the wards. Severus just looked irritated at being interrupted. He shook his head.

"We have hired a young man to do it tomorrow while I take you to your aunt's house," Severus informed him. Sherlock frowned at this, but Severus held up a hand to hold off his questions. "We will not stay there long, just long enough to trick the wards, then we will immediately leave for my house after obliviating Petunia and her family into believing that you are still there." Sherlock nodded.

"Won't that alert the ministry?" Mycroft asked suspiciously. "That property is only listed to muggles and an underaged wizard, so any magic performed there would notify the bureau of underaged magic." Lucius smiled proudly at him.

"Ordinarily, yes," Lucius replied. "But I had a… _friend_ , ah hem, refile some paperwork. It won't be a problem now." Sherlock felt his shoulders slump in relief.

"When do we leave?" Sherlock asked.

"First thing, tomorrow."

***1047***

Bill Weasley stepped through the fireplace and into his childhood home, breathing in the familiar smells and taking in the warmth that always filled the living room. He let his bags slip from where he'd been holding them on his shoulders and fall to the carpet with a muted thud. Ginny looked up at the noise and gasped girlishly as she leaped up from where she'd been doodling on a notepad to throw her arms around her older brother. Ronnie was sitting in the living room as well, his nose buried in a book. He glanced up when Ginny ran across the room, and smiled. He, too, got up to go greet his brother. Bill could only smile helplessly as he watched as his littlest brother strode across the room without the slightest hint of a limp. Even though he'd seen proof of his brother's miraculous healing over Christmas, it was still amazing to Bill to see little Ronnie look so…whole.

Bill squeezed Ginny with his left arm, opening up his other one to invite Ron to share the hug. "Bill's back!" Ginny called out at the top of her lungs, making both of her nearest brothers wince a bit. There was a clattering coming from upstairs as Bill's remaining brothers scrambled to come meet him. Molly came bustling out of the kitchen to throw her arms around her oldest.

Soon the Burrow was filled with a chaotic symphony of voices all speaking/shouting at once, asking questions about his work and just claiming how happy they were to see him again. Bill glanced at the clock, his father was still at work, according to it. Oh, well. He'd see him soon enough.

"I'm so happy you're here!" Molly said cheerfully. "You should have given me some warning, though! Oh, it'll be fine. I'm sure there's enough dinner! Come, come!" Bill paused and put a hand on her shoulder to keep her from walking away.

"Mum," he said uncertainly. "Warning? Dad was the one who asked me to come." Molly looked confused.

"Really?" she asked. "Why on earth would he do that?"

Bill hesitated, unsure of what to tell her. Surely his Dad had a good reason for not telling her. "Erm, well. Dad got a warding job for me. Here. It's uh…a big opportunity and it'll pay well…and I think it'll be easy?" Bill winced. He was a Gryffindor for god's sakes not a Slytherin! He wasn't a great lier by any stretch of the imagination. Luckily, his Mum was a Gryffindor, too. So even though the twins and Ronnie eyed him with suspicious, the rest of his family bought the lie and let it go.

That night, Bill bunked with Percy, dropping some miniature ward stones and casting a few spells to magically expand the room, giving him space to enlarge the bed he'd packed. When he was finished with his task he sat down on the soft mattress with a groan, then he noticed Percy looking at him expectantly. "What?" he asked, feeling defensive for some reason.

"Why are you really here?" Percy prodded him, plopping down on the mattress next to him. "What'd Dad want?"

Bill chewed his lip. He was going to say something, probably a partial truth, but then the door opened and in walked the twins and Ronnie. "Yes, William" said George

"Brother dear," that was Fred

"Pray tell,"

"Why'd you come?"

"Not that we're not happy to have you," interjected Ronnie as he sat next to Bill. "Is something wrong in Egypt?" Bill shook his head, sighing. Growing up, they'd done this a lot. There was an unspoken rule that you never lied to your brothers, even if you hid truths from Mum and Dad, or even Ginny, brothers were different. It was safe to tell your brothers anything, because they never told on each other.

"He got me a job from Malfoy," Bill confessed. "He wants to end the feud." Bill got several opinions for that revelation.

"It's a good idea—politically" Percy said, looking impressed.

"Bloody hell, has Dad gone bonkers!?" that was George.

"Are you sure it was Dad and not a Death Eater under Polyjuice?" Fred inquired, looking concerned.

"That's nice," Ron said simply, smiling. "Mycroft's my friend."

Bill knuckled his eyes, then ruffled Ronnie's hair. "The thing is, the warding job is the wards around Harry Potter's house."

"Sherlock" Fred and Ron corrected him at once.

"Sherlock?" Percy asked, now looking alarmed.

"Sherlock!" George spluttered. "Don't do it mate! It's probably a trick to leave poor Sherly all alone and vulnerable!"

"Dad told me they want to move him in with Severus Snape," Bill slapped a hand over George's mouth when it looked like he was about to start ranting about their 'slimey old git of a Potion's Professor' "because Sherlock's been abused by his muggle relatives, and Dumbledore still wants to put him back there for the rest of the summer."

Ronnie's eyes widened, and Bill felt a little guilty for having to be the one to tell him. It was obvious how Ronnie felt about Harry—Sherlock Potter. "But, but I thought the Malfoy's were taking care of him!"

"Apparently Dumbledore interfered," Bill sighed. "But don't worry, I trust Snape. He might be strict, but you have to be with Potions. And I don't think I ever told you guys, but it was him to recommended me to Gringotts. I wasn't even supposed to know, but I found out last year, talking to one of the Goblins."

"Blimey," muttered the twins in unison.

"He's being abused," Percy asked quietly, cletching his fists on his bed covering. "Really?" Bill patted his brother's shoulder, nodding wordlessly. Ron grit his teeth.

"And Dumbledore _still_ wants to put him back there," Bill pulled his baby brother into a hug.

"We're taking care of him, I promise."

*****1047*****

The Holmes Brothers embraced for the second time ever as they said their good-byes standing at the Malfoy Floo. Severus was holding out the jar of powder impatiently, but neither brother felt the need to hurry. "You'll be seeing each other again soon enough," Snape snapped at them. "Let's get a move on!" Mycroft reluctantly let go of Sherlock, feeling uneasy at letting his little brother go anywhere near those vile muggles.

"I—be careful"

"Of course, brother mine" Sherlock said in a low voice, eyes twinkling at mention of their secret. Mycroft managed a smile even as he watched Sherlock take up a handful of Floo Powder and call out "Arabella's House!"

Sherlock had been livid when he'd learned that his old babysitter had known of the wizarding world. Both because she still treated him like garbage, and because he himself hadn't figured it out. He'd just thought she was crazy. He always hated going to Figg's house. Everything was covered in hair, and every room reeked of cat urine. Upon leaving the fireplace, Sherlock tripped over a black cat and idly wondered if it was a bad omen for what was to come.

"Up, Mr. Potter," Severus drawled as he stepped through, gracefully missing the tails of the eight cats currently sitting around them. Sherlock grimaced and sat up, trying to make minimal contact with the carpet. Figg was just sitting there in a fur covered chair like the crazy old bat she was with a kneazle perched on her knees. They didn't acknowledge her at all as they left the rank house and strode across the street towards Sherlock's old prison.

Despite the fact that Sherlock was a grown man who had seen horrors in his life time, who had once murdered criminals all for the sake of protecting his John, who had died once for real and once in acting, who had warred against criminal masterminds and come out on top, and who had survived not one evil genius trying to kill him, but two…he found himself filling with dread as they approached the front door. He was plagued with memories of being locked in a cupboard for days on end with only a small, half empty water bottle he had to make last and a handful of almost rotting scraps he'd been thrown like a dog. He remembered all the times he refrained from soiling himself by sheer force of will because of being denied bathroom privileges. He remembered the long years he was forced to toil like a slave for people who despised him, and how, if he refused to cooperate, he'd be thrown back in that horrible cupboard. He remembered being thrown about like a rag doll and falling down stairs or getting his skin torn off by cement or carpet burns. He remembered the pain of the hot utensils used to smack his arms and legs, leaving burn marks. He'd tried numerous times to delete the memories of the actual abuse, and half the time he was successful. But then something would happen and… He remembered the nights where he was so cold, not even his mind palace could keep him from feeling the chill. The lonely years, the painful isolation, the knowledge that these people _hated_ him and, for once, he'd done nothing to deserve their ire.

 _Delete…Delete…Delete…Please…_

Sherlock hadn't realized he'd stopped walking until Severus Snape picked him up. Sherlock's first reaction was shock. He couldn't remember…actually he could, but it had been _years_ since he'd been picked up in this life, and he'd pretty much _never_ been picked up at all in his last life. His second reaction was embarrassment, especially since Severus most likely _knew_ that Sherlock wasn't as young as he looked.

When he tried to squirm out of the Potion's Master's grip, he was stopped by a gentle slap to the leg. "Enough," Snape said. Sherlock stopped wiggling, and let himself be carried to the front door, unable to stop himself from tensing.

"It's alright, Sherlock," Severus said gently as he set the tiny almost twelve-year-old down on the cement steps of Number 4 Privet Drive. "If they so much as spit on you, they'll find themselves without a tongue." Sherlock nodded stiffly. Severus didn't bother knocking, he'd seen out of the corner of his eyes that Bill Weasley had arrived and was already striding towards the where the warding stone was buried with purpose. He just _alohamorad_ the door and pushed it open, leading the way when it was obvious that Sherlock was too traumatized to make the first move. With a sinking feeling, Severus wondered just _what have these creatures done_ to make what once had been a grown man freeze in terror at the mere sight of their front door. A _Gryffindor grown man_ nonetheless!

Petunia was dusting a shelf when they burst in. She'd grown uglier with bitterness and age, gaunter and more horse-like. Her hair was thinning, and she tried to hide it by pinning it up in an elaborate bun. Her thin lips were pasted with pastel pink lipstick, and her eyes were owlishly decorated. She dropped her duster when she saw them, knocking down a glass picture frame depicting what appeared to be a beached while in a three-piece. "You!" she snarled.

"Hello to you as well, Tuna" Severus said blandly, flicking his wand at her. Her eyes went glassy and she slumped down on the floor. "That's one," he muttered.

"MUMMY!" cried a younger voice. Severus saw the boy, Dudley, and waved his wand once more. Sherlock found himself relaxing and watching in amusement as Dudley flopped down onto the floor.

"Muggles are so ridiculously easy to obliviated it's literally a crime," Severus told Sherlock with a smirk as he stepped over the unmoving form of Petunia. He sat down on the couch and Sherlock hopped up onto one of the chairs. "I only placed a little charm on the both of them to see you randomly walk about, though I also put a compulsion spell to leave you alone. That should be sufficient. Now, all we have to do is wait for your uncle, and for Mr. Weasley to finish up with the ward stone."

Sherlock let out a deep exhale. "That's all?" he asked just to make sure.

"That's all"

"…I love magic."

****1047****

Albus Dumbledore felt strangely distracted today, his mind flitting from idea to idea, never really stopping for long. People might think him a dotty old man, but normally he was more focused than this. Albus sighed and rubbed his temples, wondering if he was merely getting old. Once again, he glanced over at the silver statuette that served as a sort of alarm, which monitored the wards over Privet Drive. The pulse coming from it was steady, but slow and feint. For a moment not too long ago, it seemed to falter slightly, but some shifting was normal, Dumbledore supposed. After all, poor Harry had to return there today after having spent a long several weeks as a pampered guest at the Malfoy's house.

Albus regretted agreeing to the Malfoy Lord. Not because he didn't enjoy the thought of stealing that old and respected House from out of Tom's grasp, but because it was cruel to Harry to give him a taste of that life style, that life style that he rightfully should have had, had James survived. Albus allowed a soft, somewhat sad chuckle. Had the Potter parent's survived, Harry would have been pampered and spoiled out of his mind. Possibly even more than young Draco, because he would have had Remus and Si—Albus stopped thinking abruptly.

So many things about Harry worried him, not least of all his strange comradery with Draco. It very much reminded Albus of Sirius and James Potter. Though, in the end, Sirius had betrayed the people who'd given him a home in the Light. Dumbledore could only hope that Draco would turn out to be made of purer stuff than the incarcerated would-have-been Lord.

A strange pulse was emitted from the statuette, and it caught Albus' attention immediately. He gazed at it for several seconds, watching as it seemed to grow weaker and weaker. Albus felt his worry grow, had this been a mistake? Surely Petunia wouldn't be so horrible to her nephew after having not seen him for so long, particularly not with Severus there. Or had the dour man already left? Had Severus said something to Petunia to anger her, and was she taking out that anger on the poor boy? Albus was getting ready to rise and check on the child when the pulse of magic suddenly steadied and seemed to sigh in relief.

It was stronger than before. Albus smiled to himself and settled back down.

His plans were still in place.

****1047****

Sherlock watched the large lump of a man that was his uncle fall to the floor within moments of crossing the threshold of his home. He couldn't hold back a giggle, and was rewarded by an amused look from his Potion's Master. They weren't there for much longer after that, Severus woke up Petunia, so that she could rouse her family, then they walked out the door. Sherlock felt freed, he felt light. Also he really wanted to talk to John, but he sensed that would have to wait a little while.

"I don't live far from here," Severus said, taking hold of Sherlock's hand. "Hold tight" then all of a sudden the world was bending and squeezing and Sherlock felt like a used tube of toothpaste. Then it expanded again and Sherlock was left gasping and groaning, barely managing to stay standing. Severus' hand steadied him.

"I've set up a room for you," Severus said without preamble, "I expect you to be quiet and tidy, and not to break my things. If you require something, tell me and I shall provide it. This summer, I shall act as your guardian, and this shall quite possibly be the case for your entire Hogwart's career. While we are here, you may either refer to me as _Mister_ Snape or simply Severus, as the neighbor's may raise questions if they here you calling me 'professor' and I'd rather avoid them at all costs. Meals will be served promptly at nine, half-past noon and six o'clock. If you have any allergies, or dislike a certain food item, tell me now. There shall be no need for curfew, but until you have finished all of your homework, I expect after dinner to be dedicated to it. You shall help with clean up from meals and keeping your room clean. If you make a mess, I expect you to clean up after yourself. You are allowed to send only three owls a week, as it's ridiculous to do anymore; you will be seeing your little minions often. You are not allowed to be outside after dark, nor any earlier than after breakfast. You will not answer the phone, nor will you give out the number to Miss Granger or any other children you know. If you break one of the rules, it will result in being served a meal entirely comprised of broiled spinach and bread, and I shall force you to eat every bite. Do I make myself clear?"

"Yes, Mummy"

Sherlock was rather expecting the whack he received to the back of the head.

*****1047*******

Sherlock really liked his new bedroom. He liked it far more than his cupboard, and even better than his guest rooms at Malfoy and Longbottom Manors. It suited more than even John's room at the Burrow…though John's presence in the room would have made the area even more perfect. The walls had a rather homey wallpaper that was a soft, dark green. The bed covers were an earthy brown, and the thick carpet (perfect for walking barefoot on) was patterned with dull red and black diamond design. The curtains were a light brown, and somewhat lacy. There was a small couch thrown in the corner near three floor to ceiling book shelves, two of which were mostly full. The area was well lit yet comfortably dark at the same time. There was a writing desk in the corner, and a door that lead off to a tidy, private bathroom.

It reminded him of Baker Street.

The room had obviously been magically expanded, as there was no way a room of this size could logically fit in the house. Sherlock suspected that it had at one point been a broom cupboard, he loved the irony. That and the fact that it showed Severus had put a lot of thought into what Sherlock would have liked his room to contain made him love it all the more.

Sherlock took out his trunk and enlarged it, setting it at the foot of his bed. He took out his mirror and placed it in an empty corner of the room, then he threw a cloth cover Mycroft had given him over the glass. He warded it so that he alone could lift the fabric. Then he flicked his wand and watched as all of his clothes flew out of his trunk and arranged themselves neatly in his new closet and drawers. His many books (that weren't in the mirror) set themselves upon the book shelf, and his various knickknacks danced around the room, randomly placing themselves about. His potion supplies found a home in a handy glass cabinet that was similar to a smaller version of what could be found in the Hogwarts's Potion's Classroom, his cauldron in a nearby stand. There were even little hooks, nearly invisible, that he found on the walls, perfect for hanging up the various pictures he'd been given by Colin and Gremione. There was even a mount on the wall above his bed for a broom, so Sherlock stuck the broom Lucius Malfoy had gifted him up there where it could be admired by anyone who walked in.

The room was now nicely cluttered, giving it a warm lived in feeling. Sherlock was vividly reminded of the happy mess at Baker Street, and the random items that John and Mrs. Hudson were forever tripping over. But…something was missing…Sherlock looked over at his potion supplies and gave a smile.

****1047****

Severus stopped in the middle of cooking dinner for himself and his new ward, who was presumably settling into his new room. Idly, as he stirred the sauce he was heating, he wondered what was taking him so long. Perhaps the boy had forgotten he could use magic to unpack? It was then that he smelled the all-too familiar stench of a potion fire. Sighing, wondering what on earth Sherlock was up to, he put a stasis charm on the food, then quietly marched up the stairs.

He opened the door to the young man's room to see him dumping several ingredients into his cauldron including, but probably not limited to: powered turmeric, bay leaves, onion leaves, essence of marigold and dandelion petals. Then Sherlock picked up a large metal pestle and began violently mashing everything together.

Severus watched him for a moment. "What are you doing?" he asked curiously.

"Making paint" Sherlock replied as though it were the most obvious thing in the world. Severus nodded slowly, leaning against the wall to watch the boy as he took the cauldron off the fire and carried it over to the wall. After a whispered cooling charm, Sherlock stuck one hand in and began smearing the yellow substance all over the wall. It didn't take long for Sherlock to finish, before he stood back to admire the smiley face he'd wiped onto the wall.

"Why?" Severus asked, feeling more amused than irritated at the blatant defacing of the wall.

"It'll make my John laugh. Do you know where I can get a buffalo skull and headphones?"

"I have a pair, though you might need to wait on the skull until I can take you to Diagon Alley. I need more gingko and Echinacea anyway."

****1047*****

Sherlock strode into his mind palace that night with a wide smile on his face. Aeldin looked up at him from where the soul piece had been examining Sherlock's memory of professor Quirrell. "I take it all went well?" Aeldin drawled. Sherlock grinned at him.

"Snape is going to take John and I to Romania in a couple of weeks," Sherlock said smugly. "I got him to promise during dinner."

"What did he demand in return?"

"That I not shoot his wall." Aeldin looked rather confused, but seemed to shrug it off. He'd understand his young host in no time, and it gave him something to do. He spent his rather empty days examining Sherlock's memories, trying to figure out how on earth a personality like Sherlock's developed.

"It's a good opportunity," Aeldin told him as he set aside the memory he was holding. "Many influential dragon trainers live in Romania, you'll have a chance to form connections with them. And if you _do_ decide to become a trainer yourself, you'll be more likely to be accepted into the hire of that reserve if your name is already known there."

Sherlock nodded. "My brother already told me as much, I Flood him after dinner." Aeldin nodded at this, though he was still somewhat confused. He had seen the memory of Sherlock and Mycroft's bonding, the young genius had made no attempt at hiding that particular memory, though he refused to answer many questions about the ordeal at all. It was a good move politically, to tie himself to Mycroft that way. Sherlock was now an official possible heir. Should anything happen to Draco Malfoy, Sherlock would be next in line for the Lordship. Though Sherlock had already been calling Draco his brother for some time _before_ they'd even _thought_ of doing the ritual.

"And has Severus mentioned being your delegate?"

Sherlock grinned. "He'll get over it." Soon, though, Sherlock left to enter the room that housed his magical core to meditate. The Gryffindor had read that the first step in becoming an animagi was becoming familiar with your own magical core. Aeldin watched his host for a while, eyes narrowed. Sherlock was powerful, incredibly so. And he had greater control over his magic than Tom Riddle could have ever hoped to achieve at the tender age of eleven, almost twelve.

Something wasn't right about him.

****1047***

John had been worried sick about his friend ever since Bill left for Privet Drive.. Something could go wrong, any number of things could go terribly wrong. Even the twins had acknowledged that. "Don't worry, Ronnie!" Fred had told him cheerily.

"If the muggles end up with him again"

"We'll take Dad's car"

"And fly ALL the way to Surrey"

"And then we'll curse the muggle's noses right off"

"And tear the door right off its hinges"

"before we fly away into the sunset"

"With your lovely boyfriend sitting beside you"

"And we'll live happily ever after"

"And you'll name all of your children after us!"

"Frigga and Georgina!"

"Florian and Geoff!"

"Filip and Gilbert!"

"Fabio and Gilligan!"

"Fergus and Gavin!"

"Flaminius and Gamaliel"

"Ooh, I like that combo."

"Yeah…has a nice ring to it…Flaminius and Gamaliel Potter-Weasley."

"Yes, it's decided, you name your first born—"

"Which will be twins, obviously"

"Flaminius Gilligan Potter-Weasley"

"And Gamaliel Fabio Potter-Weasley!"

"Wait, why does his name go first?"

"Because he's more important, obviously."

Despite the twins doing their best to cheer up their favorite sibling, John still sat worriedly in the living room, waiting for Bill to come back. The moment the Floo erupted into green flames, John leapt up from his seat "What happened?" he demanded of his brother the moment his feet touched the Burrow's floor. Bill laughed and ran a tender hand through Ronnie's hair.

"Everything went fine," Bill soothed. "The muggles were obliviated by Professor Snape and I saw him apparate away with Sherlock. The ward stone was actually easier to transplant than he led me to believe, so everything went off without a hitch. He's safe, Ronnie," Bill was looking incredibly amused. Molly stepped into the room just then, so they had to change topics. Luckily for them (or perhaps unluckily) the twins were experts at starting up random conversations at the drop of the hat.

"So you're saying the gopher just attacked your nose?"

"Just like that?"  
"How long did it bleed for?"

"Did it have rabies?"  
"Are you going to die?"

The 'revelation' that Bill had been 'attacked' by a 'rabid gopher' during his job caused Molly to start smothering him in motherliness the very next moment, successfully distracting her from asking about his job, as was the twin's intention. Though Bill still sent them dirty looks over their mother's head when she grabbed his nose and began dapping witch hazel all over it "Just in case, dear".

*****1047*****

Pink…or purple…pink? Or purple…

The wizard looked at his collection of robes, wondering which one would be more appropriate for meeting with his editor. He held up his favored lavender one, then a soft rose colored cloak. Hmm...perhaps if he did the lavender robes with a rose accent…He was startled from him thoughts by a rapping at the window. It was a common brown owl bearing a rather official looking envelope.

Letting the creature in, he received the paper and sliced it open with his mother-of-pearl letter opener, accidently cutting his thumb in the process.

" _Mr. Gilderoy Lockheart,_

 _Your application has been carefully reviewed, and upon many hours of careful consideration, you have been approved for the Defense Against the Dark Arts position. I ask that you submit your chosen textbooks no later than August 1_ _st_ _. Good luck and good day,_

 _Signed,_

 _Professor Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore, Order of Merlin (first class), Headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Supreme Mugwump of the International Confederation of Wizards, and Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot"_


	22. A Moment of Peace

**I'd like to say that this chapter begins "Book 2", even though I'm not going to bother with setting up a new "story" on my account. If I remember correctly, The Chamber of Secrets started just before Harry's 12** **th** **birthday, when he was locked in his room and was visited by Dobby. Most of you would probably pick up on this anyway, but I wanted to clarify for the few people who would miss it.**

 **I think it's too soon for the Grangers to meet up for a prolonged period with the Malfoys or Weasleys because it** ** _would_** **probably lead up to John and Mycroft's families discovering their past lives, and that would just make everything needlessly complicated.**

 **Severus, however….**

 **Thank you to everyone who reviewed and followed recently! You are my muses. Speaking of, I'd like to thank my dear cousin, AlwayzHuman, for being my greatest muse of all. My cousin has recently started her very first Johnlock fic, so if you guys could check her out and show her some support that would mean a lot to me! Just go to her account and select her story "Flower Perennial". It's actually mostly thanks to her that I'm as into fanfiction as I am. She told me she updates her story every Friday. Also, thank you cousin for looking over this chapter with meeee XDXD LOVE YOU!**

 **So, yeah, this is a bit of a filler chapter, but I hope you like it anyway!**

 **May the Gods be ever in your favor!**

 **~James**

Severus, as a rule, despised children. Couldn't stand them and never could. Any possibility of him ever enjoying the idea of being around a child had shriveled up and died the moment he became a professor at Hogwarts, School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. All day every day, each year he taught he had to put up with the sniveling brats as they whined about his strict standards, his taste in fashion, even things as trivial as the shape of his nose. Though, despite popular belief to the contrary, Severus never actually _acted_ on this hatred. True, he appeared to be _extremely biased_ towards Slytherins and against every other house, Gryffindor particularly. But this was for the sole purpose to keep up his façade of Death Eater for the remnants of Lord Voldemort's followers. It was expected of him. And despite his dislike for children, he still protected them with wandless, muttered protection shields every time a cauldron exploded, still made sure that anyone harmed was immediately escorted to the medical wing (even if they were escorted there by a firm hand on their ears), and he _never_ tolerated bullying or blood slurs against _anybody_.

And yet for all that he was expected to do, he found himself inexplicably fond of one Sherlock Potter. This was the result of the union between his childhood tormentor and the love of his life. By all rights, Severus should hate the boy. His colleagues certainly expected him to.

During staff meetings, whenever Filius commented on Sherlock's power, he did so while looking at Severus pointedly, as though expecting the Potion Master to argue, then the small man would look surprised when Severus never did. Minerva, when she spoke of his prodigy-like skills, would glare at him, as though daring Severus to insult her star pupil. Even Pomona, when she laughingly updated the other professors on how Sherlock was still unable to remember any of his classmate's names, would glance at Severus and hurriedly mention how the boy was at the top of his class. Most annoying of all was the shocked and slackened faces whenever Severus quietly spoke words of praise about the Potter boy's accomplishment in Potions.

They only saw the bitter man Severus was forced to play the part of, due to his role he'd unwittingly forced himself into as a young man. They never saw him deflecting hexes that older students flung at Sherlock's back as they little boy walked oblivious down the Hogwarts Hallways hand in hand with "Johnald" Weasley. They never saw him vanish the poisoned jug of pumpkin juice that a jealous older Gryffindor had plopped in front of the genius. They never saw the small smiles he'd hide behind scowls and stern lectures when Sherlock "experimented" while his and the Little Weasley's potion ingredients during class. They never saw the sudden yet explosive feeling of pride that erupted in his chest when Sherlock showed him his letter from Hogwarts declaring he'd gotten O's in all his subjects (Except in Potions, in which he'd gotten an E). They never saw the warmth that filled him when people on the street assumed that Sherlock was his son, whenever Severus took Sherlock for an outing to get them both out of the small house for a few hours.

They never saw the nights when Severus would check up on Sherlock to ensure that the light sleeping potion he'd slipped in Sherlock's evening meal was in effect, nor the few moments of weakness when Severus would gently rearrange the thick blankets around the tiny frame. They'd never know the painstaking carefulness with which he selected items to gift the brat on his birthday. They'd certainly never know Severus' new secret, the one he'd hold closest to his chest: that he accidentally started to think of Harry James "Sherlock" Potter…less and less as James Potter's son.

He could see Lily in almost everything the small boy did: the way he scrunched up his nose, the way his scrubbed his hands through his hair when he was agitated, the way he stomped and threw his arms around when he was frustrated, the way he hit/kicked/stabbed/threw things out of anger, his fiery temper that was quick to cool, the light in his eyes whenever he found something interesting and new to learn about, the tenderness in his beautiful green eyes when Sherlock interacted with animals or "his John".

But…Sherlock had also unconsciously started mimicking Severus, as children were known to do. Sherlock began eating with a knife, like Severus did, spearing his food with the blade rather than using a more conventional fork. Sherlock held the potion-making utensials with the same odd grip that Severus favored. The boy also picked up Severus' quirk of spinning quills when he was considering something whilst writing an essay (though Severus can't remember every doing so in front of the boy). Sherlock also utilized Severus' infamous drawl, and many people had commented to Severus that the boy's glare was unsettlingly like his own. The boy hated the same foods that Severus did, while they had the same favorite dessert. Neither of them enjoyed flying, or Quidditch, and Sherlock often adopted the same look of dread whenever John played on his broom that Severus knew used to appear on his face when Lily played.

Severus hadn't even realized he'd been noticing all of this, hadn't realized it had mattered until he'd taken Sherlock and John to Romania to visit Charles Weasley and someone named Francine. He accidently called Sherlock his son. It had been a simple slip of the tongue, but, perhaps that had made it all the more profound.

It had been in a shop just outside the dragon reserve in the small wizarding town that had sprung up in the cradle between two wooded mountain sides. The woman haggling at the front with him had paused to glance over Severus shoulder at Sherlock, Granger, Draco and Little Weasley, who were pouring over dragon books near the back, in awe over the beautiful pictures, as they were yet to see an actual dragon.

The woman had clucked and cooed the way old women do when faced with something they deem "precious". "All your children?" she had asked him, her English heavily accented. Absently Severus had answered while examining a bottle of a rare plant's extract.

"Just the small one." Then they had settled the prices for the food, ingredients and various souvenirs before they bid her good-day and walked out. It wasn't until they were hallway up the path leading to the reserve that Severus had even realized what he had done. It's unreasonable how much the realization shook him up, even after he'd tried to tell himself that he'd meant to say that Sherlock was his ward, not his child.

It wasn't the last time that people assumed that Sherlock was his. At the ranch, the men there had assumed that Sherlock shared Severus' last name. It surprised Severus that it had been Chalies Weasley who corrected his collogues, not one of the children. It had put Severus in somewhat of a bad mood, for reasons that escaped even himself, so he'd set about lurking near the sheds, speaking quietly with one of the tamers while Charles led the children about the large, grassy area where they kept the younger dragons.

Severus had been set on ignoring the children for as long as possible, but was unable to resist scanning the lawn at the sound of a rather shrill scream. His heart about killed itself when he saw the smallest child running _towards_ what was obviously a nesting mother atop a clutch of eggs. The tamer closest to Severus called out something in Romanian, sounding panicked.

Severus had apparated across the area within a blink, then he froze. The nesting mother had begun to nuzzle the little boy in the stomach, as though scenting one of her own young. Afraid to move, lest he provoke the dragon's ire, he stood there feeling out of place. Charles softly approached, looking as nervous as Severus felt. "Unbelievable" the young dragon tamer breathed. "Pricilla never acts like that. Sherlock's an absolute natural with dragons! I should take him to see the older dragons later! Old Felix hasn't let anyone near him in four years, I wonder how Sherlock would fare trying to feed him! OH! Or Rudi! He's one of our grouchier ones, but I'll bet Sherlock… "

Severus rather felt justified in the stinging hex he'd hit his ex-student with.

*****1047*****

John was sure he'd never felt happier. He had parents where were involved and invested in him, he had siblings who he got along with (most of the time). He loyal friends, including one mad consulting detective. He was healthy and whole, and he had a son. It was odd, sure. But John was determined to be there fore Colin, even if he couldn't ever be able to fill the role of father, like he maybe might have could, had things been different.

But with Sherlock spending more and more times with Professor Snape ("He's taking me to France, John. There are rare pixies there! The dust is needed for a potion that will cure paralysis, though under careful examination I had a theory that it will also cure…") he had more freetime than he knew what to do with. Because of this, he started begging his parents to let Colin come over to the Burrow more often, so much so that his brothers expressed concern that he was "cheating" on Sherlock. When John tried to inform them that they weren't actually an item, their concern had increased so much that they started needling Colin, interrogating him, treating him like some sort of homewrecker.

That is, until Colin asked in confusion "Wait…I thought you two were dating" at which point Colin and the twins began talking about John and Sherlock's "future", planning their wedding and baby showers, spending hours talking about all they ways they should decorate their house, and what careers they should go into that would complement each other.

After that visit, the twins seemed to considered Colin John's _second_ best friend, after Sherlock. The one John would hang out with when Sherlock wasn't available. A sort of substitute. John tried to ignore the uncomfortable feeling he got when he realized how true that was.

Even still, his heart broke a little when Colin teared up when he came to see him and Sherlock off to Romania. They only spent a week there, but by the end of that week, John was glad to be leaving. He didn't know if he'd be able to stand much more of seeing Sherlock run heedlessly towards _dragons_ as though they were simply overgrown dogs who needed attention. And while it was interesting to volunteer in the reserve temporarily, John firmly crossed out dragon trainer as a possible future career.

If only Sherlock had felt the same way. He pouted for a full two days after they left Romania, according to Professor Snape who had apparently complained to Mr. Weasley about it. The only thing that shook him out of it was when Colin announced one day that they were going to make a Sherlock Holmes movie.

The next day, Sherlock snuck out and into London, where he could watch the filming. John only heard about this when a near frantic Severus Snape came bursting through their Floo to demand that Sherlock explain why he'd left the house before breakfast. And then turn a ghastly shade of white upon hearing that Sherlock wasn't there.

John had owled Mycroft, who had sent a letter back saying it was obvious where Sherlock went and not to be alarmed, while also not telling John where it was he went. Severus had spent the day casting tracking spells and locating charms, none of which worked. Molly was panicking, Arthur was trying to reassure her, and Severus was convinced that Sherlock had run away back to Romania, and had been eaten by a dragon.

Then around dinner time Sherlock had shown up asking where "Severus" was. If John hadn't been so relieved, he would have laughed at how red Snape's face had gotten as he very visibly fought with the urge to embrace the mad genius, and throttle his skinny neck. In the end, Snape had grabbed hold of Sherlock's ear and drug him back through the Floo without another word to the Weasley's until the next day, when a Hedwig appeared at the breakfast table with a letter informing them that Sherlock would be unavailable for anything for the next week.

So, John spent that time getting to know his son. While John wasn't able to be a father to Colin, he was able to act as big brother/guide to the wizarding world. He showed Colin the best spots to see fairies, brownies and leprechauns. He helped him out with his homework, and various home recipes for simple cures that weren't taught in the Hogwarts curriculum. It was still awkward whenever John was invited to the Creevey residence, and he came face to face with Mary, but it was made easier by the fact that the woman didn't recognize him.

*****1047*****

For both of Sherlock lives, he'd always felt like he was racing against something, be it his brother, a rival, a criminal, a simple feeling or times itself. He lived life coiled like a spring, ready to leap at any given moment. He was barely able to relax himself enough to fall asleep, despite how exhausted he was. His mind would be forever pounding out observations, dancing about numbers and facts and ideas, coming up with experiments his fingers would be itching to perform. The taut, constant stress made it impossible for him to enjoy eating. It always felt far too heavy, weighing him down. It was always so hard to swallow, even when he knew, when he felt how hungry, how malnourished he was. He hated eating because of it, the discomfort of food knotting his stomach would distract him for at least an hour after wards.

Even on the quiet days, he'd feel as though there was something just beyond him, mocking him, that he had to accomplish, or figure out, or defeat. Sometimes, he thought it was his brother, his big brother who had always been smarter than him (as much as Sherlock loathed to even think that) watching him through secret cameras. Other times he thought it was the idea that there was something interesting going on that he wasn't a part of. Some nights, when the flat was so still he could almost feel John's deep breathes from the room above him, he'd think it was the subconscious knowledge that one day he would die and everything he's ever done wouldn't make so much as a scratch on history.

So much _energy_ was always buzzing just beneath his skin, in the hollow of his bones. It made him pace in agitation, even when there was nothing physically wrong. It made him strike out in frustration at the slightest provocation. It made him moody and short-tempered, glaring and insulting people at every hand.

From the first few days as Harry Potter, he still had that uncomfortable vigor resting inside of him, made worse by the fact that his new body was unable to move. And then he turned his father's hair blue. Suddenly, he was feeling more tired than he ever had, and he passed out. He had only been four days old. When he awoke, his parents were still bursting over the fact that their son was such a magical prodigy, that he had performed accidental magic at such a tender age, when most children did not show signs until two or three at the earliest.

Most of the agitation had remarkably disappeared. Sherlock had long ago theorized, around the time he was two, that in his past life he had been a squib, unable to access his magic, thus the uncomfortable sensation of too much energy. Even after this discovery, though, he never really felt at peace. True, it was easier for him to sleep now, easier to eat on occasion (particularly when in close proximity to John, most likely because the doctor's presence causes Sherlock to unconsciously relax a bit more) but he never really felt _peace_.

Until he realized he did. It happened the third day of his "grounding". It was a strange experience, one that Sherlock had never had before. He had apparently broken several rules (Sherlock had probably deleted something he shouldn't have) and as a result he was confined to the house, not allowed to accompany Severus on visits or errands, nor allowed to visit his "minions". He wasn't allowed to even go out to the yard or owl or Floo call.

Sherlock was fine with this, he had experiments to do and he hadn't explored all of the mirror of Erised's contents, and if he got (unlikely but still) _lonely_ there was always Aeldin who he could talk to whenever he felt like. In fact, something about the whole scenario left him feeling…pleased. He honestly wasn't sure why, but whenever Severus would come home for the day and, scowling, ask what Sherlock had done that day, an unknown feeling would rise up and made him grin responding "Nothing".

After one such conversation, Sherlock found himself laying on his bed in the room Severus had given him. For the first time Sherlock could remember, he was feeling lazy…but he didn't feel like sulking. It was a pleased sort of lazy, like how the cats Mrs. Hudson once babysat used to act. He was spread in starfish formation across the covers, eyes staring wide open at the ceiling. His mind was blank. His back was completely untensed. His arms and legs felt like warm jelly.

It was easy to breathe.

The sound of footsteps coming up the stairs caused his languid mind to stir, offering up observations and deductions in a less frantic way that it normally would.

 _Heavier than normal, but hesitant. He's feeling guilty about the punishment._

 _Pausing outside the doorway, feeling awkward, wondering if he has overstepped his authority as my guardian._

 _Hand on the doorknob, grip abnormally tight. Angry at something, me? No, himself for overreacting. Did he overreact? The punishment was rather light, to be honest. Nothing like Father used to do. Barely even yelled._

 _A sigh. He sighed. Is he tired?_

The door opened to reveal Severus, his eyes briefly flicked over Sherlock's form, amusement flashing in them for a brief moment. _Wasn't sure I was actually in my room; he had considered the possibility that I had left again. Ridiculous_.

Severus paused, and seemed to consider whether or not to speak. His dark eyes were piercing, and his mouth was pinched. He looked rather like John did when Sherlock was being "an arse". Lazily, he ran over a few memories of how John would act in this situation, of how John had told him to act in situations like this. Severus cleared his throat and opened his mouth, but whatever he had come in to say, Sherlock stopped him with a simple "Thank you", looking directly at him, green eyes meeting black "for everything".

It seemed to shock the professor a great deal, and Severus soon after stalked back out without a word. Sherlock gazed blandly at the still-open door for several moments, before mentally shrugging and entering his mind palace. Aeldin had promised to teach him mermish.

*****1047******

Ignotius Peverell set down his quill, then picked up his nearby handkerchief to wipe off the specks and smears of ink he never failed to splatter all over his fingers whenever he wrote. The sun was shining, and all was well, the warm beams heated up his family's manor house through the large ordinate windows that decorated the walls. Near his feet, his four year old was sleeping curled up with the family's pet niffler, and across the room his darling Accalia sat at a low wooden table, teaching two of his daughters the art of warding. He could hear sounds of his sons just outside screaming and hollering out like so many savage muggles.

He stood up, his bones twinging just a bit, stress and grief having aged him far passed his fifty-seven years. He crossed the room to press a tender kiss to his wife's forehead, then ventured on passed to his study. Once there, he locked the door. Then warded it for good measure. Speaking muttered words of a dead language, an invisible compartment on his desk unlatched, and he pulled it open, taking out a thick piece of shimmering silver cloth.

He also pulled out a needle, forged by a goblin friend of his, and a spool of thread unwound from the cocoon of a young wrackspurt. Slowly and painstakingly, he embroidered runes along the edges, for protection, luck, stealth, longeivity, health, warmth—anything Ignotius could think of that may one day protect the wearer while sealing the near-perfect invisibility into the cloth, sure to make it last for many, many lifetimes.

Just as he was pulling the needle through one last time, someone knocked on his study door. Smiling a bit, he cut the thread with his dagger, and shook out the cloak. While Ignotius didn't have the talent for needle point like his wife did, he felt that he did a suitable job. And so, he tucked it over one arm and opened the door, to reveal Accalia herself standing there, a look of amusement on her face.

A twinge of regret overtook Ignotius. He hadn't yet worked up the courage to tell her about his plans, for fear of her turning him away out of disgust or fear. He reached out with his free arm and embraced her, but she pushed away with a sound of annoyance. "Rawlins has brought his suitor, Ignotius," she scolded him. "Why have you hidden yourself up here? You should be down there, examining the boy!"

"You mean interrogating him," Ignotius smiled fondly at her. "Though something tells me you have already done an admirable job, my warrior. Is the young man yet alive?" Accalia scowled fiercely at him, but said nothing as Ignotius chose that moment to sweep the cloak about her shoulders, the enchanted side within, and the silvery visible fabric facing out. "For you, fierce one." Accalia's ire softed somewhat as she fingered the soft texture, but suspicious eyes were next turned on him.

"Be down shortly," she commanded him, eyes narrowed. "Or no number of gifts will save you." Ignotius placed a solemn hand over his heart, making his lovely wife scoff and turn on her heal. He watched he go, then approached the closet in the corner of the room. Inside stood a tall mirror. Ignotius had tried and fail many times to create the reverse of his brother, Cadmus', veil. He'd tried for years to bridge the gap between life and heaven, to bring back his family. All, he felt, who had passed long before their time.

At one point, he'd thought he'd done it. In his reflection, he could see his dear brothers. His mother. His father. All of them were alive and well, and beckoning him. But when Ignotius tried to pass through the screen, he only found himself in an empty room.

Years have passed since then, and though he would forever miss his brothers, his dear obnoxious older brothers, he was content with his lot in life and his only desire was to protect his remaining family forever. So, when he looked upon the mirror that now stood hidden in his closet, he only saw himself standing beside his wife with his children scattered about them. Smiling, Ignotius summoned his journal to his hand, then entered the mirror. He passed by a decorated box that breathed with familiar magic without so much as a glance in its direction: he had to hurry. Instead he reached for a smaller, plain black box and tucked it into his pocket. After placing his journal on a shelf with the others like it, he left, walking as fast as he could while retaining a noble poise towards the sounds of his family getting ready for their meal.

His eldest son, and his heir, Isen, stood near his mother, staring starry-eyed at a young man with dark hair, pale olive skin and bright brown eyes that seemed to flash almost red. Isen looked up as Ignotius walked into the room, and with a word to Accalia, the two young men approached Lord Peverell, both with a poorly hidden nervousness. "Father," Isen said, his voice trembling minutely. "May I present Heir Ophiuchus Olvera Slytherin…" Isen continued to babble about the many accomplishments of his beloved, but Ignotius all but tuned him out. He examined the young man with a critical eye.

 _Dark aura, but untamed. Has not ventured far into the Dark Arts but has a natural affinity for it. Hand twitching towards his wand: nervous, but good at remaining under a calm facade. Trained in defense, probable advanced dueler. Stains on his fingers, hair recently washed, but still holding traces of oily residue, Potioneer. Standing angled in front of Isen, protective. Possessive._

 _…suitable._

 _For now._

"Welcome, Odysseus!" Ignotius said cheerily, gripping the young man by the arm and fairly dragging him towards the heavily laden table, which the servants were still adding to.

"Ophiuchus…" Isen corrected with a flushed face.

"Yes, yes. Sit down, young Oglefus!" Ignotius smiled, "get to know the family why don't you? I'll want you know about your career and the state of your fortune—"

"Father!" Isen hissed, face still burning.

"—as well as do you still live with your parents, or have you established independence? Furthermore, what are your personal aims for the next twenty years? How many children would you like? Do you prefer Kneazels or Hippogriffs?"

"Father, may I speak with you?" Isen begged, already inching out of the room.

"Of course, of course," Ignotius beamed at his son, aware of his wife giggling behind her hand, watching as their eldest all but dragged his father out of the room. "If he can't handle me, he's not good enough for you," Ignotius started the conversation. Isen seemed to wilt, all of his irritation and embarrassment leaving him.

"Father…" he sounded resigned. "Please…he's normally very quiet. It took a lot of persuading to get him here." Ignotius smiled at his son.

"I have a good feeling about him," Ignotius declared, startling his son. Lord Peverell grinned at him. "Did I forget to mention that I and Ophiuchus are already somewhat acquainted? His mother and I had a rather long conversation the day after you first mentioned him to me."

"That was before he began to court me!" Isen protested. Ignotius just smiled, reaching into his pocket. "What is that?"

"Your Heir ring," Ignotius smiled at him. "I should have given it do you years ago."

"I already have one, Father," Isen said, confused.

"This one's better," his father assured him. "It belonged to my elder brother, Cadmus, though you probably don't remember him." Ignotius opened the small box to reveal a smooth, odd looking stone set in dragon's gold with the Peverell crest shining from within. Pressing it into Isen's hand, Ignotius met his son's gaze. "Ophiuchus has my blessing. But don't tell him until tomorrow."

"… _Father!_ "

*****1047******

 **Kudos to people who look up the meaning of Ophiuchus' name. Lol I know this was kinda short and filler, the next chapter will really get into book two. Hope you guys have a great day! Please Review!**


	23. A Study in Identity: Chapter 1

**Thank you to all the peoples who reviewed for the last chapter!**

 **animaniac-aizel012: Yes. Sort of. And thank you for reviewing at all!**

 **: Your review made me smile! I'm really glad you like my story! I'm glad you like the 'little bits of history', I try to put a lot of thought into those parts particuarily XD**

 **Tamha: Yeah, while there's def not going to be any lemons, I think giving myself more creative freedom by getting rid of that limitation will help many areas of this story in the long run. But, Thank you.**

 **May the gods be ever in your favor!**

 **~James**

 **Book II: A Study in Identity**

Sherlock Holmes woke up late on the morning of his twelfth birthday. He scowled, the only possibly reason that he woke up late was if Severus had drugged his evening tea with a sleeping potion. It had become something of a game for them, ever since Severus had learned his young ward suffered from insomnia the first night Sherlock lived with him. Severus had been woken up around three in the morning to a loud bang. Fearing the worst, he'd fled down the hall to the small ex-closet room and thrown open the door, only to be greeted by the sight of one bored Sherlock Holmes throwing (seemingly) random ingredients into a half-melting cauldron.

"I'm seeing how much the quality of the cauldron effects that of the potion," Sherlock explained off handedly as he dropped a handful of slimy lizard innards into the mess. The boy had looked as awake and alert as ever, which prompted a rather annoyed discussion on the appropriateness of staying awake and obnoxious after people had gone to bed after Severus had banished the pile.

The next night, Severus awoke at two thirty to the sound of melodic violin playing. He lay in bed for a while, thinking that at least it was better than exploding the building with "experiments", but that it was entirely too loud. He'd marched right back over to the small room and thrown open the door to find the tiny genius playing his instrument with his eyes fluttered half closed in front of his bedroom window. After seeing the genius tucked back into bed, Severus left the room ignoring the half-hearted glare being thrown at his back.

The next night, Severus hadn't woken up at all, much to his surprise. So, he'd crept silently down to the boy's room only to find it warded shut with locking hexes and silencing spells. The cheeky brat.

Thus, began Severus' habit of dumping sleeping potion into random food or drink items during dinner, or after dinner tea. Sherlock still had the habit that most previously starving people had of wolfing down food, barely tasting it. At least, he did when he actually ate of his own accord. Other times, Severus had to bully the boy into eating at all and it was getting concerning enough that the Potion Master had made an appointment with the Malfoy's personal healer to get his stomach examined, only to find the tiny boy's organs in a horrible state that explained his admittedly alarming size.

After that, sleeping aids weren't the only potions Severus habitually slipped into Sherlock's food.

The night before Sherlock's birthday was no different, and Severus had managed to mask the taste of several carefully prepared medicinal potions in a special tea he'd bought earlier that week that had a rather intense flavor. This lead to the boy in question waking up around ten o'clock feeling rested and relaxed…and hungry.

Sherlock sighed and shoved off his covers, planting his feet on the floor, shivering slightly as the blankets fell away from him and he was accosted by early-morning air. A glance to the right revealed that Severus had opened his window to let in fresh air sometime earlier that morning. The curtains fluttered slightly as the wind blew into the small room. Taking a deep breath, savoring the sweet breeze, Sherlock stood, rolling his shoulders, then padded in stocking feet over to his wardrobe.

He pulled open the thick oak doors and stared blankly at his growing collection of clothes. It would grow too warm later in the day to wear his coat, but it was currently rather chilly. Sherlock spared a moment to scowl unforgivingly out the window, hoping childishly that whatever being in control of the weather saw his displeasure. Then he grabbed a light shirt, muggle trousers and a stolen "John Sweater" that was only slightly too big for him.

It was nearly eleven by the time he was finished preparing for the day, and Sherlock was feeling ravenous. The smells wafting up from the kitchen weren't helping anything either. Omelets, light and easy on his stomach. Gratitude was a feeling that previously Sherlock only really felt towards John or, on occasion, Mrs. Hudson. However, it was frequently becoming a common emotion that Sherlock associated with Severus, now that he'd been staying with the man for little over a month and _Merlin, where had the time gone?_

"I was just about to go drag your lazy arse out of bed," Severus commented as he flipped the omelet he was cooking, adding in various ingredients and spices. The man looked relaxed today, his limbs loose as he moved about the kitchen, and his posture was as relaxed as Sherlock had ever seen him. "You're going to be late for the party," a plate was unceremoniously plopped in front of him, loaded down with food. A diced tomato rolled down the side of the pile and plopped onto the table. Sherlock looked at it thoughtlessly until a glass of white grape juice (probably laced with healing potions) startled him as Severus thumped it down onto the table cloth quite soundly. "I expect at least half of it eaten, or I'll ban your head minion from the festivities, today."

Sherlock gave his guardian a token glare and out of spite began eating his breakfast with his hands, smirking at the overly heavy sigh he was rewarded with. He nearly managed three quarters of his plate before a hint of the familiar lumpy sensation in his gut made him stop and refuse to eat anymore, though a look from Severus had him gulping down his juice, which settled his stomach somewhat.

***1047***

Neville and Sherlock were having a joint party, as they had mostly the same group of friends, and Sherlock didn't feel like attending two large social gatherings in a row. It was held on a mostly wooded property that the Longbottom's owned, tables and decorations set up in a large clearing. All of the first years from all four houses, the Weasley children, the Lovegood girl, and a few older students (like Diggory from Hufflepuff or Flint from Slytherin) who were friends or friendly with the birthday boys were in attendance. An area for a mock Quidditch game and other party activities (like pin the fangs on the Basilisk or a scavenger hunt and a piñata) were set up. On a circular table, a huge red and gold eighteen layer cake with twelve candles on the lowest layer and twelve on the top most, flickered as Mr. Weasley and Professor Flitwick lit them one by one.

Most of the professors came for the occasion, except Dumbledore who claimed to be too busy, and professors who were yet to teach either birthday boy like Sinestra or Babbling. Minerva and Molly were balancing the enormous two tables filled with presents (one for Nev and one for Sherlock), Sprout and Hooch were attempting to help organize a Quidditch game with three times the ordinary number of players, and Neville was dragging his friends around on the scavenger hunt looking for various magical plant specimens.

"Who created this list?" Sherlock asked in disgust. "Eucharis grandiflora aren't even native to this area!" ("Ten points to Gryffindor!" shouted out Sprout who was just barely within earshot. "That doesn't count!" declared Severus. "We'll just have to mark it down come start of semester" retorted Minerva.)

"I found a leprechaun mushroom" said Luna Lovegood happily just before taking a bite of it. "They give you good luck in finding gold and manure deposits." She chewed thoughtfully, closing her eyes in bliss as though she were eating caviar and not a slightly muddy fungus she'd pulled off a rotting, fallen tree.

"That was a Tulostoma Niveumis," corrected Neville shyly, looking appalled that she'd just taken a bite out of it. Luna sniffed it lightly, her nose twitching like a rabbit. "I can't remember if it was poisonous or not..." ("Five points to Gryffindor!" "Still doesn't count!")

****1047****

It was nightfall by the time all of the activities, cake supply and mountain of presents had been exhausted, and the children were feeling just as worn out. With the number of adult wizards there, clean up was short work, so by the time the last child was picked up the clearing looked pristine, like it was still untouched by human hands (if you ignored the many various plants which had 11-year-old-girl-sized bites missing from them).

"Alright, boys, Ginny, time to go!" Arthur called out cheerfully, feeling slightly regretful when he saw his smallest boy and Sherlock sitting cuddled up together underneath a tall pine tree. "Come on, now, Ronnie," Arthur said soothingly. "We're going to the Alley together tomorrow, remember?" he asked as he approached the two, who were looking very sorrowful indeed.

"Even Severus?" asked Sherlock. Arthur shook his head.

"He has to prepare for the school year," Mr. Weasley explained. "There's a staff meeting at Hogwarts he can't miss, so he asked for my family to care for you tomorrow instead."

"It's getting late, and unless you want a certain something forcibly poured down your throat tonight, I suggest you hurry up and get over here," called the stern voice of the Hogwart's Potion Master. Arthur looked confused and the twins looked alarmed.

"He makes me take potions," Sherlock whined to John.

"Good" said the little Weasley, looking entirely unsympathetic. Sherlock _harrumphed_ and stood up abruptly, marching irately over to his guardian while the Weasley Clan giggled together behind him as Severus placed a firm hand on Sherlock's shoulder and apparated away.

*****1047*****

"…if I hear one word from Arthur that you misbehaved at all, you'll be grounded until school starts. Do I make myself _quite_ clear?"

"Yes," Sherlock nodded firmly. "Bribe the Weasleys to keep quiet. With how poor they are it shouldn't be too ha— ** _ow_**!" Sherlock was cut off by a sharp yank to his ear. "That's how Edison went deaf, you know" Sherlock informed Severus sullenly.

"If that ever happens I shall heal you straight away," assured Severus. "So that I may do it again." Sherlock scowled. "No frivolous spending. I don't care if you get extra things, but I don't want your room filled with meaningless junk. And don't go into Nocturn Alley." Severus' hand had migrated from Sherlock's ear to the back of the boy's head, forcing the now twelve year old to look the professor in the eyes. Sherlock jutted out his bottom lip, looking more adorable than either of them cared to admit.

"But _you_ took me there."

"Exactly. _I_ did." Severus gently, almost playfully yanked a handful of Sherlock's hair. "Arthur wouldn't know the first thing about staying safe in such a place. You'd probably get yourself eaten by a vampire or sold to a werewolf for meat."

"…is that a thing?"  
"I'm sure I don't want to know. Now, give me your hand."

Severus apparated them both to a back alley near the Leaky Cauldron, then walked Sherlock the short distance to the dingy pub where the Weasley clan were already waiting for them to arrive. "Right on time!" Molly said cheerfully, looking at Sherlock with a critical gaze that filled him with the irrational desire to hide behind Severus. The pub seemed to be less crowded than normal, but nevertheless every eye in there seemed to be trained on him, same as every time Sherlock had come in here before, even when most people didn't recognize him as the "Boy Who Lived".

"Obviously" Severus' hand left Sherlock's and with a final "Be good" the man walked away swiftly, and out the low door, his outer robes whipping noisily as he went. The Weasley's watched him go in part amusement, part resignation.

"Cheerful, isn't he?" muttered George, making the stink eye at the door Severus had just slammed shut. Arthur rubbed at his mouth, trying to cover a grin.

"Right ray of sunshine" his twin agreed.

"He doesn't like teacher meetings" Sherlock felt the need to explain as he reached for John's hand, pulling the slightly taller boy closer. "I need to stop by the bank first. I spent all the money I had on me over the summer."

"On what?" John asked, amused as he wrapped his arms around Sherlock.

"Experiments John," Sherlock rolled his eyes. "And books on mermish. It's a much harder language than Aeldin led me to believe."

"Who's Aeldin?" asked Percy as the group of children followed the two adults into the busy chaos of the Alley.

"The boy who lives in my head." Sherlock answered. "He's very knowledgeable about the wizarding world." The redheaded prefect obviously didn't know what to say in response to that, so he wisely said nothing at all, instead deciding to call out to Ginny, who was trailing red-faced behind the rest of the pack.

"Luna said your sister is infected with wrackspurts," Sherlock said to John, low enough that the girl couldn't hear him. "Is that why her face is always so red?"

"How should I know?"

"You're a doctor."

"For _muggles_ Sherlock. I don't even know what wrackspurts are."

"They live in your head and make your thoughts fuzzy."

"You really shouldn't listen to Luna."

"But she's so fascinating. Did you know she watched her mother explode, right in front of her? Now she and her father go theastral watching every late summer."

"Merlin, Sherlock. You seriously didn't ask her about her dead mother, did you?"

"She asked about mine, and you told me once that it was polite to return a question after answering it. I was just being nice."

"Sherlock! There's nothing _nice_ about asking about exploding mothers!"  
The bickering lasted all the way down to Sherlock's vault. They were accompanied by a goblin and Arthur, as Molly was going to the Weasley vault. To Arthur's credit, he didn't even bat an eye when Sherlock's vault door opened to reveal an enormous amount of gold, silver and copper coins. "I'm buying my John's things," Sherlock told his friend's father as John blushed furiously. "You needn't worry about him at all."

Arthur seemed to be fighting a frown and a smile at the same time. "Sherlock, kiddo, as his parent it's my job to provide for him."

"No"

"Sherlock— "

"I want to." Arthur just looked at Sherlock carefully, then at the money pile remaining in the vault and sighed, looking resigned, but grateful. "Alright," said Arthur. "Just this once." Sherlock didn't agree to that, but he did smile blindingly, which eased some of the immense guilt in Mister Weasley's stomach.

***1047***

The day was hot, and there was only a sparse amount of clouds in the sky overhead. All this adding with the impossible number of people crammed together in the dusty, noisy Alley was starting to give Sherlock a headache.

And Sherlock didn't like headaches. So, when asked where the children wanted to go, Sherlock immediately demanded they go to the bookstore, remembering that all the past times they'd been in there it had been mostly empty and blissfully quiet. Arthur had volunteered to take the twins to get everyone's potion supplies while Molly eagerly stated she'd loved to visit the bookstore with the children.

Unfortunately for Sherlock, Florish and Blotts did _not_ provide the calm that he'd been wanted. Instead witches of all ages seemed to have decided that _right then_ was the perfect time to form a mob inside the store. Dozens were calling, screaming out to somebody. Dozens more seemed to be crying, whilst waving their arms. The few that weren't practically foaming at the mouth were still awkwardly craning their heads around the other people, trying to get a look at something.

"Disgusting display," drawled a voice to Sherlock's left. There was Lucius Malfoy arm in arm with Narcissa, his other arm gracefully cradling some sort of bundle. Mycroft had his nose stuck in a book, though he quickly put it down when he realized who they were standing near. "Honestly," Lucius sounded very close to whining. "I went to school with that plebe; he's got the brains of a flobberworm and the personality of a peacock in heat."

Narcissa coughed delicately into her hand, while Molly looked scandalized. Percy had to try very hard to cover up a snort of mirth. "Who?" Sherlock asked, fingers clinging to John's robes, his eyebrows drawn together and voice tense. John looked at him in concern.

"Lockhart something or other. Some famous author Mum likes. I think he's supposed to be some sort of explorer or the like. Haven't read any of his books though."

"Lockhart…" Sherlock frowned deeper. "His books were on the list for Hogwarts this year."

" _The esteemed headmaster_ " Lucius drawled, hearing the boy, "has deemed the honorable Gilderoy Lockhart a suitable candidate for the position of Defense Against the Dark Arts Professor." He then turned to his wife. "I vote for just owl ordering the entire mess. Or, better yet," he looked over at his son "how do you feel about Durmstrang?" Both mother and son rolled their eyes.

"We're already here, darling," Narcissa said plaintively. "We may as well grab the books, come Sherlock, we can get yours while you're at it."

Sherlock instinctively moved after the tall, willowy woman, not really hearing Mrs. Weasley's indignant "He doesn't have to listen to the likes of you!" as he moved into the crowd. He drug John along with him, prompting the two other Weasley children present to follow as well. Ginny grabbed a spare shopping basket and grabbed a discounted potion text book off of a shelf.

"Where are the Lockhart books?" she asked "None of them are under the L section—oh," she stopped because they're reached the center of the store. And there was the man himself surrounded by sobbing/screaming/handsy witches and reporters at a table filled with his merchandise. Lucius flicked his wand and several copies of each book lazily floated over people's heads and into the hands of each of the children, including and extra two copies for the twins.

"Thank you, Lord Malfoy," Percy said, genuinely, prompting a small smile from the blonde man. But before Lucius could say anything in return, they were interrupted by a grating voice shouting out "Good Lord! Is that Harry Potter?"

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at the man, taking in his appearance despite his pounding head. _Overly kempt appearance, probably gay but closeted and so flounces about with beards. Muggleborn than, wizarding families don't hold to such bigotry. No, half-blood. Muggle father, but witch mother, who spoiled him. Colorblind…just look at his robes. Very obviously, a Narcissist. Suffered from insecurities as a young child, due to unrealistic expectations from parents. Still suffers: too dumb to be worth anything but smart enough to know it—_

His brain was cut off by a hand pulling him forcibly away from John, causing both boy's to instinctively cry out and reach for each other. A camera flash caught the moment while further causing Sherlock discomfort as he blinked rapidly trying to regain his vision. "Lucius!" He tried to called out, though an arm muffled his cry. "Harry, my boy!"

Sherlock tried biting the arm that was covering his face but it moved too quickly. "What an opportunity! Smile for the camera's my boy! Together, you and me are most certainly worth the front pa—ah!" Sherlock flipped the curly haired wizard over his own shoulder, and Lockhart gasped for breath as he lay on his back, the camera's flashing repeatedly.

Without wasting another second, Sherlock ran back to where the Malfoy's and Weasley's were waiting. By this time, Arthur was just appearing, and was looking rather livid. Lucius looked reading to murder the author. In his haste, Sherlock collided with the Malfoy matriarch, who bumped into her husband, causing the contents of his bundle to spill onto Ginny, who in turn dropped her basket of books. Lucius apologized quickly to her before leaving the girl and Mycroft to pick up the various items before turning worriedly to Sherlock to inspect the boy.

"Are you alright?" Lucius asked, kneeling, at Sherlock's nod he rapidly rose, drawing his wand and training it on the still gasping Gilderoy. "Listen here, Lockhart," Malfoy sneered at the man. " _Sherlock_ Potter is under the protection of the Malfoy family, and should you lay hands on the child again I _will_ see you in court before the Wizengamot!"

"Obviously," Lockhart said, getting to his feet and resuming his confident pose. Though he wasn't addressing Malfoy, but rather the press. "Mr. Malfoy as a confirmed _Dark_ wizard would hold me in low esteem after all I _am_ after all Gilderoy Lockhart, Order of Merlin, Third Class; Honorary Member of the Dark Force Defense League; and five-time winner of Witch Weekly's Most Charming Smile." He then flashed said smile, but a calm voice spoke up which was heard over the clamoring of the reporters and fangirls.

"Excuse me," said Arthur Weasley, his wand also out and joining Lord Malfoy's in the air. "But I'd rather you didn't _slander_ my friend in public. My friend, who, I might add, was never voluntarily involved in the Dark Arts. Or, do you consider yourself _above_ the Wizengamot?" Lucius threw a money bag at the counter, then lead his family and the Weasley's out of the store.

"Honestly, Draco darling what _do_ you think of Durmstrang?" Narcissa asked

"I here Bulgaria is beautiful this time of year," Arthur added in good humor, causing Lucius to chuckle.

"Arthur—" Molly tried to say something, looking both irate and puzzled, but she went unnoticed when Ginny thanked Mycroft for helping her pick up her things, which Mycroft graciously waved away.

"I must be going," Lucius said, "I've an appointment to keep. But I do hope your day improves from here." Arthur returned the remark and then watched as the Malfoys turned down the street and disappeared into the crowd.

"Arthur!" Molly said, reprovingly. "You just aligned our family with the Malfoys! In front of the press!"

"The Malfoy's have been good to Sherlock," Arthur said sternly. "And they are kind to Ronald. Furthermore, young Draco is a good lad. I've heard from numerous sources that he doesn't act at all like those other entitled purebloods. He never calls anyone out for their blood or affinity. Hagrid himself told me that Draco's _'a real sweetheart'_. Hagrid, Molly. Hagrid said that."

"Hagrid likes everybody!"

"Let's go, John."

"Coming."

"Wait for us, mate!"

"Lead on oh, fearless leader!"

"I'm in."

"Can we get ice cream?"

"Boys? Boys! Ginny! Where are you going?"

"Hold up!"

"Arthur! Get back here!"  
*****1047*****

The teacher meeting got over reasonably early, mostly due to the fact that their new DADA teacher had deemed it more worthy of his time to schedule a book signing rather than attending. So, Severus had made his way to his quarters in the dungeons, reveling in the fact that his ward was taken care of for the day, and so he had a moment to himself for the first time since he'd taken in the brat.

Of course, the moment he'd poured himself a glass of Ogden's Best, the all—too familiar sight of a ministry owl swooped in through the floo. With a growl of frustration, Severus slammed his glass onto his counter with enough forced to cause a hair-line crack to form, beads of alcohol forming and dribbling down the sides, to pool around the base of the cup.

Severus glared at the little bird, who calmly ruffled and preened its feathers, all with its leg still jutted out as it stood on the back of one of Severus' wooden chairs, balanced like some sort of circus tightrope walker. The small scroll tied to the extended appendage was marked with the familiar Wizengamot seal. The owl hooted once, and almost seemed to shake its leg in a _Go on, I haven't got all day,_ gesture.

Severus snatched the scroll, causing the thing to squawk in anger and fly at him, talon's raised. Severus snarled at it, even as he ducked to avoid a collision between the bird and his face. He batted his arms at it, making his loose teaching robes flutter about like the wings of the bat-creature all his students swore he was.

"Out!" Severus commanded the owl, shooting a beam of harmless light at it. The owl swooped and dodged and hissed before leaving once more. "Blasted Ministry flying rats" Severus mutter darkly as he sat heavily down. He only bothered reading the first few lines before throwing the entire thing into his fireplace.

" _To the honorable Lord Snape-Prince,_

 _You are requested to join the Wizengamot for an emergency meeting concerning the arrest of once Mundungus Fletcher, who as caught dancing nude atop a Muggle residence loudly declaring wizarding information, such as where to locate—"_

Shouting a few uncharitable things about Mr. Fletcher, Severus summoned a quill, ink pot and roll of parchment to him. Seeing as he already managed to obtain Lordship, there was no reason to keep the damn position any longer. Severus smiled maliciously, but there was no reason to not spread some good will around, he thought as he began to pen Arthur Weasley's name onto the sheet.

****1047****

 **IDK, it seemed a bit rushed to me. Hey, guys! If there's anywhere that I could improve on, or a point you'd like me to expand on, just let me know in the reviews! Also, in answer to a PM and to any future requests, you may most certainly write a parody of my story, or your own version or whatever. Just please let me know so I can read it, and also it'd be nice of you to mention Magic of Deduction in the summary or AN or something.**

 **Anyway, Hope you guys liked it!**


	24. My Little Penpal

Albus Dumbledore was concerned. Despite what his colleagues might think, he actually had a very good reason for hiring one Gilderoy Lockhart to become the Defense Against the Dark Arts professor. He had several other people he was considering but in the end it was Lockhart who he felt best suited his purposes. After all, even though Dumbledore was well aware the ex-Ravenclaw was a fraud, was possibly the least magically talented of all the candidates for the position, there was one thing that Dumbledore couldn't deny: he milked his fame for all it was worth.

And he was good at it, too. He was really good at it. Gilderoy could be trusted to go after any means to gain more fame and Hogwarts offered that to the man because of one very big detail: Harry Potter. Dumbledore had been counting on that fact. Harry Potter had been so far so unpredictable that Dumbledore was about at wits end with the boy. He was only grateful that he had enough power over the boy that he was still able to force the child to go back to the Dursely's in time to prevent the collapse of the wards. So long as those were in place in ensured that his little soldier would survive until it was time for his final battle.

A pang of regret one again went through the old man. Truly, if he thought there was another way, a way that would end with Harry surviving this whole mess, Dumbledore would grasp onto it with both hands. But the more the thought about the prophecy, the more it made sense.

 _The One with the Power to vanquish the Dark approaches, born as the seventh month dies…Again and again revealed, again and again survived…thrice born before, now once again arisen: the Lord of the Light approaches…born of the light, marked by the Darkness and claimed as its own…imbued with power known not, blessed with life ever renewed. Joined by a warrior of peace by his side, for neither can live unless the other survives…the one with the power to vanquish the Dark shall return as the seventh month dies_.

It was so very obvious now that some things had already unfolded. Undoubtedly, Harry was the one with the power to vanquish the Dark. He had already shown the uncanny ability to survive the killing curse (though Dumbledore was hesitant to test to see if the boy were capable of surviving it a second time), and he had most definitely proved his magical power that year, despite his rather alarming habit of doing barely any actual written work. Harry had been born the last day of the seventh month.

 _Again and again revealed_ , that was a bit trickier. It could mean Voldemort. He was first revealed as Tom the orphan, then Tom the Prodigy, then Voldemort the Dark Lord. And Tom had most certainly survived many things. Thrice born before, perhaps this meant spiritual birth? Voldemort had considered himself "reborn" when he became the dark Lord. After that, something had caused his appearance to change drastically, as had his behavior. So, the next time Tom came back, it would be his fourth revelation.

Lord of Light, Harry was meant to be Lord Potter, a light wizarding family, and the marked by the Darkness. Though _claimed as its own_ holds some measure of worry for Albus. Imbued with power known not, blessed with life ever renewed…well, Albus could only speculate and things wouldn't be perfectly clear until they had already happened, but that was the way with prophecies. ' _Honestly, Sybil! Why couldn't your prophecy be as clear and concise as mine_ ,' Albus thought to himself.

But that was all off track, the point was that Albus had hoped the influence of Gilderoy would have been enough to nudge Harry back onto the path Albus had intended the boy to be on. Harry seemed to care _less_ that he was famous, sometimes Albus wondered if the oblivious child even _knew_. But Gilderoy would most certainly bring it to his attention, maybe even get the boy into the spotlight. It might pressure the child more into acting like the Golden Boy the public expected of him. As it was, Harry barely acted like a Gryffindor at all! Albus had fully expected the youngster to go after the stone the previous year, but Harry hadn't acted. And in his nonaction, the stone had fallen into the hands of Voldemort!

Albus had hoped, come the start of the school year that the extra positive attention, the fans, the spotlight would prompt Harry to act like James had during his Hogwarts carrerr: Like a Gryffindor.

But all that had backfired when the incompetent oaf had neglected to come to the teachers meeting, causing Lockhart and Harry to meet prematurely at Diagon Alley. Dumbledore didn't know _what_ Gilderoy had done, but the front-page headlines were _most_ alarming.

 **New Hogwarts DADA Professor Attacks Student!**

 **Harry Potter Declares Blood Feud with Gilderoy Lockhart?**

 **Lockhart Publicly Shunned by Prominent Pure-Blood Figures!**

 **Malfoy and Weasley Feud, Over?**

 **Potter Under Malfoy Protection!**

What's worse is that Albus had belatedly realized that at some point Harry had transferred authority over his Wizengamot seats over to someone else, which, seeing as Albus didn't actually have any of his own, had pushed him from the status of Chief Warlock, giving that title to none other than Lucius Malfoy. Albus was sure that Lucius was behind it somehow, but he had no way of proving it, due mainly to the fact that he had no eyes and ears on the Wizengamot since Augusta stopped speaking to him after blaming him for Frank and Alice's condition, and the other Purebloods on the court refused to break their vows of secrecy for him.

Albus would have no choice to confront the boy about it come the start of semester.

*****1047*****

Ginny Weasley watched with envy as her youngest brother sat squished next to Harry Potter on the couch. The gorgeous raven-haired boy giggled as he whispered something into Ron's ear, something that made her blonde brother elbow his sharply in the ribs. Harry only laughed harder and kissed Ron chastely on the cheek, making Ron grin and wrap his arms around Harry's neck. It was all so sickeningly sweet, it made something ugly churn inside of her.

Ever since she was a little girl, she dreamed about meeting the famous, powerful, rich Lord Harry James Potter. He was practically a fairy tale prince, straight out of Beedle's stories. He was beautiful, uncommonly so, with his ghostly, expressive green eyes and his wild black curls, and his porcelain skin. Ginny didn't even care how small and slight he was like some girls might, because he made up for it with how powerful he was. And, oh, he was so kind. He didn't act like it sometimes, but how he acted towards Ron, Ginny wished desperately that somebody (preferably Harry himself) would act like that towards her.

But instead, it was her _brother_ Ron who had won Harry's heart, seemingly by accident. And now the two of them were all but snuggled up on their couch, waiting for Professor Snape, of all people, to come and take Harry away. Harry, who was currently leaning on Ron's chest, eyes closed and lips curled upward with his arms clasped tightly about his best friend. Ginny's heart ached.

"S-s-so, H-Hary," Ginny tried to start, cursing her own shyness and the stutter that showed itself whenever she tried to talk to him. "W-what do you pl-plan to d-do the r-rest of the-the summer?" she asked, feeling her face burn red. But Harry didn't even seem to hear her, and she belatedly realized that he didn't answer to anything but "Sherlock". But Ginny had always hated calling Harry "Sherlock", especially ever since she found out he only called himself that because of Ron.

The fireplace glowed green, spitting sparks and revealing the glowering form of Severus Snape. His eyes immediately sought out Harry, and his shoulders seemed to slump a bit, making Ginny feel just the slightest bit curious. But then she saw Snape look at her father and grin almost evilly, and she had to fight a shudder that raced down her spine. Her older brothers always spoke of Snape like he was some kind of demon from hell, and so she didn't quite understand why poor Harry Potter was allowed to stay with someone like that.

Severus approached Harry and tugged on his hair. "Come brat, have you eaten?" Mum was the one that answered the professor.

"He had only a couple bites of food," she sniffed. Mum's cooking was a point of pride for her, so the fact that somebody like Harry Potter didn't seem to enjoy it was a sore spot for him. "He didn't even touch anything on his own plate, he just ate off of every body elses."

"Not everybody's" George corrected her from where he and his twin sat on the stairs playing some sort of muggle card game that Harry had taught them the last time he was here.

"Just Ronnie's" agreed Fred, wiggling an eyebrow at the blonde Weasley, who rolled his eyes and gently prodded Harry until he grudgingly began to move. Severus placed a firm hand on Harry's shoulder and looked down at him sternly. Harry, though, wasn't looking at him, he was still looking at Ron, trying to communicate something with his eyes.

"I trust he behaved himself?" Severus turned to Dad. Dad beamed.

"Oh, he was pure gold!" Arthur laughed fondly. "There was a little incident at the book store, but it was the fault of that blasted Gilderoy Lockhart."

"Mr. Lockhart is a grand wizard—" Mum began trying to defend the man but no one but Ginny seemed to pay her any heed.

"Indeed?" Severus asked.  
Dad nodded solemnly. "Lockhart tried to force Sherlock into taking a picture with him, and Sherlock may have defended himself in an over the top way, but it was perfectly within his rights to do so, and honestly, I'd have done the same thing in his position. Unfortunately, the press tried to follow us around for the rest of the day. I suspect that's what put the poor boy off his dinner."

"Not like he ever eats anyway," Mum grumbled into her knitting.

Severus seemed to soften a bit, and even patted Harry's shoulder almost consolingly. "Nevertheless, you will eat when we get home, after your stomach has settled a bit." Harry frowned at the Potion Master, his bottom lip sticking out. Severus only rolled his eyes. "Come, Sherlock" and once again Ginny was amazed that the batty old Potion's Master had bent to Harry's desire to be called something so very random.

Ginny stayed quiet, watching, until the two of them had disappeared into the fire, then she wordlessly stood up and marched up to her room, pretty much just shoving the twins out of her way earning twin shouts of "Oi!" The icky feeling in her stomach was turning into anger. Why was it RON that got everything? Ginny was the only girl, _and_ the youngest. All of her friends told her that usually the youngest girls were spoiled rotten. But not Ginny. No, it was always, _"Poor Ronnie"_ this or _"Sweet Ronnikins"_ that or " _Oh, we mustn't do that, it might make Ronnie uncomfortable"_ or _"Are we sure it'd be okay for Ron to do that?"_. Everything had always revolved around Ron for as long as she could remember.

Ginny wasn't sure what had changed from before, when she hadn't minded about this. Maybe it was because, before, Ginny understood that her "little" brother might not live to see Hogwarts, because of how sickly he was. Or maybe it was because even after Ron was healed and left for Hogwarts Ginny _still_ felt like the forgotten middle child because all Mum and Dad ever talked about was _"Oh, Ronnie's doing so well in Hogwarts!" "Ron's made Seeker? That's the youngest in at least a century!" "Ronald's best friends with_ The _Harry Potter?"_. What was next: " _Ron's the next coming of Merlin"_?

Mum barely praised her when she managed to wandlessly transfigure her stuffed horse into a Pegasus. Neither of her parents even _noticed_ when the rosebush she'd been tending to all year had randomly sprouted red and pink polka-dot blossoms. Dad had said _nothing_ when Ginny had housed a Grindelow in the bathtub! He just took it back to the lake without a word! Honestly, it's like she was competing with Ron all year, and her brother wasn't even there!

Now, she'd be going to Hogwarts _with_ Ron, and oh how much worse it would be. She would just be _another Weasley_ , instead of _the first female Weasley in four generations_. Sure, she was still that, but nobody would care. Not when Bill was a warding prodigy that even the Malfoy's acknowledged for his skill. Not when Charlie was out in Romania taming dragons (which _Ron_ had gotten to go see). Not when Percy was Prefect with perfect Os every years. Not when the twins were famous for their ingenious pranks and uniqueness. Not when _John Weasley_ was the youngest Seeker in a century, a survivor of a unknown curse that had plagued him since infant hood, third in his year, _best friend of Harry Potter_!

No matter what she did, her brothers would have done it already. If she failed her classes, oh well she must have the twin's mind for school work. If she aced everything, oh she must take after Percy. If she was good at Quidditch, _bloody Ron must have tutored her!_

She may as well just drink and invisibility potion and be done with it. Because of her brothers, Ron especially, she was sentenced to a life of obscurity. The only thing that could have set her apart was becoming Harry's girlfriend. But it looks like Ron already beat her to THAT as well!

In her frustration, she kicked over her basket of new books (new only because Malfoy had bought it for her) sending them sprawling out in every direction across her floor. With a huff and a half-sob she dove onto her mattress, burring her face into her pillows, fists clutching almost painfully at her blankets. Fate must really hate her, in any other family, she'd be the favored child. She was the youngest, only girl, smart and pretty to boot. But, noooo! Not in the Weasley family. Not when Ron outshone them all.

Sniffling, she sat up, wiping at her eyes with the back of her wrists. Then she saw it, a little black notebook. Ginny frowned, swallowing down a last hiccup. She didn't remember putting that in her bag. It must have fallen in during all the chaos with Mr. Lockhart. She slid off her bed and sullenly crawled over to it, knees nudging across the carpeted floor. She picked up the notebook and flipped it both ways, examining each cover.

"T.M. Riddle" she read, disappointed. It was a second-hand notebook. Not that she was exactly _new_ to such things. But it usually meant it was already full of scribbles. So she opened it and started thumbing through the leaves, expecting it to be stuffed with old class notes and doodles, but was pleasantly surprised to find that it was blank. Each and every page looked brand new.

Smiling slightly, she stood, briefly massaging her now slightly rubbed knees, and stepped over various piles of laundry and spilled books to a cup sitting on her window sill that held various writing utensils. She selected a refilling quill with purple ink, then went back to her bed and sat down, scooting backwards until she was leaning against her wall. Checking over her shoulder to make sure her door was still closed and no nosy older brother was spying on her, she opened it up to the first page and poised the quill nub onto the paper.

 _I wonder what it says about me that I wish my brother were still a cripple. At least then it was easy for me to accept why everybody fussed over him. But now he's fine, and Mum and Dad still never seem to think about anything but him._

Ginny paused, to think of what to say next, brushing the brown feather of the quill across her lips, staring up at her far wall. She'd never kept a diary before, too afraid that one of her brothers would read it. But, honestly, nobody even thought about her anymore, so there was really no danger of somebody going through her things. That, and she really needed to rant to _somebody_ , and nobody in her family would be very happy with her if she told them what was on her mind.

Having decided on the next sentence, she looked back down at the paper, only to find that the words were slowly disappearing. At first, she was angry, thinking it was just some sort of prank item that the twins had slipped into her basket. She made to chuck the thing out her window, but then paused as she realized such a notebook was _perfect_ for her. She could write whatever she wanted and nobody would ever be able to just pick it up and read it. Content once more, she opened it back up, only to find that her words had not only disappeared completely, but were gradually being replaced by difference ones.

 ** _Nothing bad I assure you, it's completely unreasonable that they continue to fuss over him now that he no longer needs the attention. I assume he's your younger sibling, then?_**

Ginny paused, slightly alarmed. Who was writing back to her? Not one of her brothers, because of that last sentence. Was this notebook connected to another one somewhere else? But how had this unknown person known to look at their own book so quickly after she had written that last bit down. Biting her lip, she hesitantly wrote back.

 _No, my older sibling. I'm the youngest of seven and the only girl on top of that. May I ask, what sort of notebook is this?_

The answer was very quick to come.

 ** _Well, that makes your parents' actions all the more unreasonable. Seven siblings? I honestly don't know how you survive. And to answer your question, my name is Tom. I put a copy of my memories in a spare notebook, so I could talk to myself whenever I needed to work through a problem. I suppose I lost it at some point. It's probably been years. How did you find my book? And, please, what year is it?_**

Ginny breathed out a sigh of relief. What a clever idea Tom had! And how perfect for Ginny! She had an unbiased _trapped_ audience to rant to whenever she wanted. Smiling, she twirled her quill and answered her new friend.

 _It's 1992, Tom. I found this book in a stack of books I bought this morning from Diagon Alley. I think it fell in by mistake. An author was there signing books, and he saw my friend, Harry Potter, who's a bit famous, and just about attacked him! In the chaos all my books spilled and another friend of my family, Draco Malfoy, helped me pick them back up. He probably put it in my basket by mistake._

 ** _During my time in Hogwarts I knew boys by the names of Charlus Potter and Abraxes Malfoy. I assume they are related? What's your name, by the way?_**

 _Ginny Weasley. And, yeah. I'm pretty sure your friends are the grandparents of mine! Draco's pretty nice, even though my family didn't used to like his._

 ** _I've heard about the Weasley-Malfoy Feud, but I was never told what caused it._**

 _Probably because nobody remembers anymore._

 ** _How humorous! May I asked what ended it?_**

 _Harry Potter. I told you he's famous? Well, because of that Draco Malfoy decided to be his friend, I think. And now they're really good friends, and Harry even spent part of the summer at their manor, where he met the Malfoy parents, and I guess Mr. Malfoy was really fond of him, because he even said that Harry was under his family's protection the other day with the whole book signing fiasco. And anyway, my family adores him because he's the one that cured my brother from his…crippleness. I guess he sort of just brought our families together by accident._

 ** _This Harry sounds rather exciting. How'd he cure your brother?_**

 _He's_ amazing _, Tom. When he was only a year and a half old, he vanquished a Dark Lord! The Dark Lord was after his family, and after he killed his parents the Dark Lord tried to kill Harry. But he's just so powerful that the killing-curse rebounded on the Dark Lord and killed_ him _instead. At least, that's what Dumbledore says. Harry said it had something to do with a blood magic ritual his mother performed. But since Harry was a baby he couldn't possibly remember. Anyway, we're not sure_ what _Harry did to cure Ron. Ron says Harry just told him his limp was all in his head and he magically got better, but Dad told me once that when Ron was a baby, an intruder broke into our house. But they went to the wrong room, and when Ron woke up and started crying they were frightened away. But before they left they cursed him. It messed up his magic_ and _his leg, so he always used to walk with a limp, and the doctors thought he was a Squib. We were so surprised when he got his Hogwarts letter, he'd barely shown any signs of magic. But then next we know, he's walking without a limp and he's the third best in his year! (Harry's the first). Dad thinks that Harry cured him, but because Harry doesn't like the spotlight, he's pretending he didn't do anything._

 ** _He sounds like a wonderful person. You two must be very close. What was the Dark Lord's name, the one that he conquered? And who does he stay with, since his parents were killed?_**

 _I wish we were. But it's Ron that's Harry's best friend. They practically hang off of each other. My other brothers say they act like they're married. Just a little while ago, when Harry was here, I saw him give my brother, Ron, a kiss. I have to admit, Tom, I'm rather jealous of Ron. I'd give anything to date_ the _Harry Potter. But he never even notices me when Ron's in the room. As for the Dark Lord, I think you spell his name Voldemore, but I'm not sure because I don't hear it said out loud often. In fact, now that I think about it, only Dumbledore and Harry Potter ever say his name out loud. I suppose that makes sense, though. They're both the most powerful wizards of this age, everybody says so. So I suppose they've got nothing to worry about. Harry used to live with his muggle relatives, his mother was a muggle-born you see. But they treated him_ really _badly. It's horrible Tom. They starved him and locked him up. They treated him like a House Elf! But because everybody loves him so much, he even managed to charm the Hogwarts Potion Professor, Severus Snape. Snape doesn't like_ anybody _._ _All my brother's say he's the meanest person to ever live. But he actually decided to adopt Harry. And according to Harry, he's really nice to him too, and he gives him medicine to make him healthier, since the muggles starved him so much that now there's something wrong with his stomach. He doesn't like to eat much._

 ** _Those horrible muggles! How terrible! I'm so glad that Harry was adopted by a wizard, even if he's not the nicest person. But I guess if he's nice to Harry, that's all that matters. You say Harry's at the top of his class?_**

 _Yeah, and all the teachers love him, even though Ron told Dad he hardly ever bothers to turn in his homework. But it doesn't really matter in the end, because he got perfect scores on his end of year test in everything but Potions. Even Binns, who's a ghost and can't remember anybody, loves him. He always gives Harry points in class, but that's because Harry's an illusion magic prodigy, and he makes history class a lot of fun. The twins told me that the upper years come to watch Harry do illusions, because of how good it is. Even Dumbledore comes to watch him sometimes._

 ** _How impressive! Illusion magic is incredibly hard, but for someone who conquered a Dark Lord as a baby, it must be child's play. Who taught him? Dumbledore?_**

 _Nobody taught him. He's just super smart and powerful. I mean SCARY smart. He can just look at you and know EVERYTHING about you. Snape confirmed he doesn't even use Legilimency for it—that's reading minds, by the way. Harry called it Deducing. He says people unconsciously confess things through body language and little tells, like stains or creases on their clothing. It's very interesting. I'm not sure I'm explaining it very well, Tom. I'm sorry._

 ** _No! I perfectly understand. I wish I could meet him. He sounds fantastic! Tell me more! What does he look like? What else is he famous for? And you said he kissed your brother, are they dating or betrothed?_**

Ginny smiled broadly, feeling lighter than she had in years. She'd never had a confidant before. It was nice to have somebody to really just TALK to. Even though she had friends like Luna, she never really felt like she could really have a real conversation with them that wouldn't eventually get back to her family. Not only that, but ever since Ron and "Sherlock" became a thing, she hadn't been able to talk (read: gush) about Harry without people giving her weird looks.

With a content hum, she put the quill back to the page and continued writing her new pen pal. She never even noticed when the sun went down, just continued penning words down to the light of the moon shining through her bedroom window until she simply slumped over late that night, sleeping with the notebook clutched to her chest.

***1047***

Sherlock spent the majority of the rest of the summer at Spinner's End with Severus during the mornings and evenings, then at the Weasley's or Malfoy's during the afternoons. It was a pleasant way to live, Sherlock had to admit. It was nice to be a child, without anyone truly demanding anything of him, or expecting him to do something, or getting mad at him for not acting "proper". In fact, if Sherlock started getting too quiet or still, it rather worried Severus, which tended to prompt the man to propose an outing. This usually pulled Sherlock out of whatever slump or sulk he'd been falling into.

He'd gained a bit of weight that summer, between Severus glowering at him over the table if he tried to eat anything less than half of what was served him, or Molly Weasley practically shoving things down his throat (because of this he usually ate less at the Weasley's Burrow) or Narcissa Malfoy constantly having dishes of his favorite meals constantly on hand ("It's alright if you don't feel like eating _now_ darling, just be sure you nibble now and then when you are."). It would have caused his vanity to rear up in protest had he not also gained about four inches in height. John hadn't grown as much, but he was still far taller than Sherlock. Something Sherlock secretly enjoyed.

Of course, since he'd gotten his books for that year, Severus had been making him read and reread them for an hour twice a day. By the time August 31st rolled around, he'd finished each of them at least twice. And not only that, but the Potion's Master had begun quizzing him over dinner. Not that Sherlock ever failed to answer a question correctly, but it was still rather insulting to the young genius that his guardian didn't put more faith in his abilities.

Before he realized it, the summer was completely over. In fact, Sherlock must have deleted the date because he hadn't remembered until Severus asked him over the stew he'd made for dinner "Have you finished packing yet?"

Sherlock had paused, spoon halfway dipped in the thick broth. "For what?" he asked, bewildered. Severus raised an unimpressed eyebrow as he tried to discern whether or not Sherlock actually had forgotten.

"For school, you halfwit," Severus dropped head into the palm of his hand. "I'll be dropping you off at the station tomorrow. Early, so it must be packed tonight. You'll get on that after dinner, then you'll bathe and go to bed," Severus said firmly with no room for argument. Sherlock _hurumped_ and pushed a lump of meat around his bowl.

"Why the station?" Sherlock asked. "You'll be taking the Floo to your office, won't you? Why can't I?" Severus leveled a weary gaze at his ward.

"Reasons, Sherlock."

"What reasons?"

"Adult reasons"

"You haven't got any reasons, you just want to get rid of me for the day!"

"Eat your stew." Severus reached across the table to the bread basket, where he grabbed a soft, warm, buttery roll and began ripping off a chunk to dip in his stew. "I thought you'd want to take the train. You'll get to reinforce your dominance over your brainless minions."

"They're goldfish not brainless."

"Of course, how rude of me."

****1047****

Severus came into his room at seven thirty the next morning, to find Sherlock sitting atop his packed trunk staring off into space. His eyes were open and glassy. Severus tried to follow his gaze, but found nothing but empty wall. Severus stepped forward and called the boy's name, but it got no reaction out of him. Sherlock wore a blue button up and his strange black muggle cloak like coat atop black slacks and shined shoes. He also seemed to put more energy into taming his hair, as his usually unruly curls seemed to be calmer and styled. He sat ramrod straight, his legs together and feet flat on the floor with his pale palms resting on his knees.

He looks like a doll, and it was kinda creeping Severus out. "Brat!" Severus barked, but again, Sherlock didn't even blink. At this point, Severus began wondering if it _was_ even Sherlock and not some life-sized mannequin the child had made (his ward had done stranger things in the past couple months). So thinking, he stepped even closer and placed a hand on the side of the child's face, lifting up his chin.

"John's contracted Dragon Pox," Severus said calmly, then watched as life flooded Sherlock's eyes and the boy jerked, toppling off the side of his box with a cry of alarm. He pulled himself back up, shouting to be taken to St. Mungos imeadiatey, then he paused, looking hard at Severus and glared.

"That's not nice," Sherlock pouted, looking like he wanted to kick his guardian.

"Rather impressive show of Occlumency," Severus replied calmly. "Who taught you?"

Still glaring at him, Sherlock shrunk his trunk and stowed it in his pocket. "My brother" he said shortly. Severus frowned as he watched the young man leave, wondering when the heck his godson managed to not only master Occlumency but teach it to his 'brother'. "Come on!" Sherlock shouted from down the stairwell, when Severus didn't immediately follow.

"Just like his mother," Severus choked, forcing back a grin.


	25. Another Weasley

**Okay, so Finally getting to the meat of Book II. I'd like to just take a moment to thank all of the people who've followed this story since day one XD I'd also like to beg for reviews, because they make me very happy.**

 **JhungYuki: Siempre es bueno para bien un lector que es nuevo en fanfiction. ¡Me alegra que te guste mi historia, y espero que sigas haciéndolo!** **XD**

 **Murder Junkie: I'm glad you think so! It took forever to get the right balance of charming and creepily interested for Tom's voice, but I'm relieved you think it turned out alright!**

 **Jayley: I'm thinking it's more bad parenting than anything, though Ginny in my U is still kinda spoiled if you ask me XD**

 **yachiru-chan92: I wouldn't say that she's** ** _stupid_** **per se, just young. Remember, Ginny's 11, and she feels a tad entitled because she has rich friends who get whatever they want, while she grew up with anything extra going to Ron and his medical bills. She's just a bitter little girl.**

 **Kai19: Your review made me laugh and gave me a lot to think about, so thank you very much :)**

 **CaseLC: that's actually almost exactly along the lines of what I was thinking!**

 **nero1493: I dedicate this chapter to you (^_-)**

 **Anyway, thank you all for your lovely reviews. You guys make me very happy! Hope you like this chapter, and may the gods be ever in your favor!**

 **~James**

Tom sighed mentally as ink appeared in front of him, scribbled out in the messy scrawl of the barely eleven-year-old girl who had found his horcrux in Flourish and Blotts of all places. True, most of their conversations had at least _some_ points that were interesting, but mostly Miss Weasley used his diary to complain about her brothers and how unfair it was that they were so much better at everything than her.

Of course, there was also the rather alarming about of information she was able to provide Tom about one Harry Potter. Tom was rather intrigued by him, and had begun to create a sort of character sketch in the emptiness around him. From what he'd learned, Harry Potter was rather like himself: raised and mistreated by muggles; far superior in intellect and looks to everyone around him; magically powerful and (though Tom hated to admit it) as socially awkward as Tom was when he first came to Hogwarts (though he's quickly gotten the hang of how to act like a perfect little gentleman while Harry didn't even seem to try). He'd also learned that Harry preferred to be called "Sherlock", because his birth name was too "dull" for his tastes. However, there were some differences, such as how Sherlock (Tom preferred that name over Harry as well) only gained such a large following on accident, and couldn't care less what people thought of him. Sherlock was rich, exceedingly so, and yet he preferred to dress like a muggle noble. Sherlock was already beloved by the whole of the Hogwarts Staff as well as a good many influential pureblood families.

Sherlock had already escaped the muggles.

As much as Tom hated to admit it, Sherlock was everything that Tom had tried to be during his Hogwarts's career, and that was probably the biggest difference between them: Sherlock didn't have to try. Sherlock was careless and rude, he didn't care about his grade or his popularity, in fact the only thing he _did_ seem to care about was Ginny's brother Ronald. Sherlock was charming because of his natural naivety, bluntness, leadership skills and curiosity. Sherlock was a natural genius that probably had something of an eidetic memory. On the other hand, Tom struggled to maintain charming composure from the moment he walked through the gates of Hogwarts. Tom had to study and exercise his magic to become as powerful as he had. Tom had to use the utmost amount of Slytherin cunning to get _any_ connections _at all_ , forget about _friends_. Tom had to learn what the people around him responded best to and mold himself to fit that. But Sherlock just expected everyone else to bend and mold themselves for him **and they did.** It was the most curious thing Tom had ever encountered, and he found himself wishing they had gone to Hogwarts at the same time.

Shaking himself out of his thoughts, he focused on what the Weasley girl was writing to him. _I'm so nervous Tom! I leave for Hogwarts tomorrow. What if I don't make any friends? What if, when they see how ordinary I am, they don't want to get to know me at all! Oh, Tom this is horrible!_

Tom wished he still had hands so that he could pull his hair out. Nevertheless, he projected his thoughts outward and attempted look like he was trying to calm her down, while further agitating her, so prompt her magic to react. The more emotional the girl got, Tom had learned, the more magic he was able to absorb. Ironically, because of this, an emotional schoolgirl was probably the best person who could have picked up his diary, due to their rather intense emotions. **_There are always muggle-borns, Ginny! They wouldn't know about your brothers yet, and anything magic is exciting to them! And besides, just think of all the exciting classes you'll have to take your mind off of things. Hogwarts will be amazing!_**

 _Only a Ravenclaw like you would think that Classes are good as distractions, Tom!_

Oh, yeah. He had told her he was a Ravenclaw, didn't he? Might as well play up to that. Thinking about the classes was making her even more anxious than she already was. **_But they are! I remember my first day of Transfiguration, they had us all demonstrate our understanding of what was in the text books and turn a book into a hamster. Oh, and Potions was the absolute best! We brewed a water purifying potion! Oh, and one mustn't forget herbology, I'll never forget those poisonous snapdragons they had us tickle into submission. You had to get them in just the right spot or they'd give you a rather painful bite…funny thing is I can't seem to remember just where that spot was…_**

 _What? Oh, I didn't know first year was going to be that hard! I haven't even started on my books!_

 ** _Why ever not? They're so fascinating._**

 _I wonder if I could get Harry to help me. He's so smart, he's probably already got all of his class stuff memorized. Ugh! Professor Snape is going to be a nightmare! He adores Harry, you can just tel by looking at him and even_ he _gave Harry a detention almost every day last year according to Ron!_

 ** _Detention? Harry? Why? What did he do to deserve that?_**

 _I'm not sure. Something about blowing up cauldrons on purpose._

 ** _Well so long as you don't do that. Just remember to know_** ** _exactly_** ** _when to turn off your heat. And never add too much water! Or was it, never add too much salt…? Oh! And stirring the proper direction is of PARAMOUNT importance!_**

 _Oh, there's so much to learn. What do I do Tom? Pity I can't take you with me, I don't want to risk getting potion ingredients all over you._

 ** _Yes, that would be bad._**

They continued like that, much to Tom's growing boredom, for several hours with Tom giving Ginerva every bit of "advice" about school short of actually putting down the diary and studying. After all, all of her angst was pouring off and into the diary, making Tom feel better, almost by the minute. Eventually though, Ginny stopped writing back rather abruptly, startling Tom out of the stupor he had slipped into. Tom assumed that someone had walked in on her, or she'd been called down for a meal. Though just a minute later, her now familiar handwriting returned briefly.

 _Harry's here again! Oh! I think I might ask him about helping me. Maybe. But he never even notices me, Tom! Not when precious, perfect "John" is in the room. Oh, I wish you could see him, Tom. He's so gorgeous. Absolutely perfect. He's gotten a bit taller over the summer, even though we're still about the same height. At least I'm not taller than him anymore._

 ** _Boy's tend to get their growth-spurts later. Anyway, just ask him! The worst he can say is no, and I don't think he will. He sounds like a nice person, from what you've told me. What's he here for, dinner?_**

 _Probably, but he came just because he was bored, he said. Apparently, Snape left him alone for the day, the mean old git. I guess he just got lonely._

 ** _Poor thing! You'd best try your hardest to cheer him up!  
_** ****1047******

Sherlock felt uncomfortably vulnerable when Severus merely patted him on the head, then apparated away with a brief "don't cause trouble" when dropping him off at the station. Sherlock didn't know why he was surprised. It would be _out_ of character for his guardian to stick around and wave at him through the windows of the bright red train. There was also that little detail that nobody was supposed to know that Sherlock had been staying at his Professor's home that summer. The fact that Sherlock had expected otherwise, and been wrong, was almost as disconcerting as the fact that the Potion Master had, essentially, left him to his own devices in the crowded space of Platform 9 ¾.

Sherlock couldn't help but feel annoyed that Severus had dropped him off in the middle of what was obviously the rush time, only ten minutes before it was time for the train to pull out. It was horrifically noisy, and, being as short as he was in his new body, Sherlock couldn't see anything but trunks and legs. Owl feathers and dropping littered the floor and stuck to the bottom of people's robes. The overwhelming smell of people, cats, toads and other various pets assaulted his nostrils. Sherlock closed his eyes tightly, standing very still. If it was a muggle crowd, he wouldn't be as effected, he thought to himself.

Because muggles, he knew, didn't give of waves of energy that made him want to retreat into his mind and never come out.

It was a very emotional crowd. Mothers of first time students were the worst of the lot with nauseating waved of sadness, pride, happiness, guilt and fear pouring off of them heavily. Fathers were not much better, those mostly more muted. Annoyance from the children, anger from the impatient people pushing past. Eager happiness from younger students. Sherlock struggled to take in a deep breath, his face a mask of indifference as he frantically scanned the crowd for his John, or his brother. Gripping his wand tightly he began to take confident strides towards the train, his eyes fixed on the open door.

A hand clamping on his shoulder make him jump like a frightened rabbit. "Sherlock!" He spun around to come face to face with Greg, who was still sporting her muggle clothing, though she had thrown a black Hogwarts robe on over her white button up and jeans. Gremione laughed and drew him in, in a firm hug which Sherlock hesitantly gave into. She was still far taller than him, even more so than Mycroft and John. Her hair had grown out a tad since he last saw her, the longer bit in the front now flopping over and obscuring her eyes. "Prat" she said fondly. "You've barely written at all."

"Boring" Sherlock said, more out of habit than anything. "Besides, I know John's been writing frequently, no doubt filling each letter with updates on my diet and hygiene." Gremione ruffled his hair.

"It's because we care, shortstuff" she said, not even bothering to deny it. There was no point with Sherlock. She took hold of his arm and shouted out farewells to her parents over her shoulder. Then she drug the both of them through the thick, but thinning, crowd of people, elbowing and shoving rudely. Sherlock stumbled along behind her, in the space she had cleared for them. "C'mon" she said needlessly "I saw John and his lot this way." Sherlock sped up a bit of his own accord at this, helping his…friend…push through, the both of them laughingly ignoring the indignant and angry protests they left in their wake.

Sherlock found it funny that the first thing John said to him, when they came close enough to hear each other was "Where's Hedwig?"

"I sent her along already," he said flippantly, reaching for John's hand. "She doesn't like the train." Molly tried to give Sherlock a hug just then, but Sherlock jumped out of the way and hurried onto the train, pausing in the entrance just long enough to shout "Hurry up, John!" before disappearing inside. Most every compartment was already full of noisy children or young adults, but eventually, Sherlock found a space with just one small girl, about Ginny's age but more petite, reading a magazine upside down.

Sherlock paused and looked at her through the door. She wore real, actual turnips hung from her ears. A "necklace" of cork was strung about her neck and nothing else she wore matched any better. Not even her shoes, which were two different patterns of cloth muggle sneakers. He opened the door and strode in, taking his shrunken trunk out of his pocket and threw it into the overhead, unshrinking it with a thought before plunking down in front of Luna.

"Good morning, Sherlock" she said dreamily. "I'm glad you came. No one else would sit with me. I think the Urawles that flutter about me are scaring all the people off. It's a good thing they're afraid of Iowles, and you've got a bunch of them lounging all about you."

"Are they harmful?" Sherlock asked curiously as John and Greg appeared behind the door sliding open. Luna shook her head with a smile.

"Not necessarily," she said slowly. "More ominous. They're rather protective, you see, of people under attack." Sherlock saw John stiffen out of the corner of his eye. "But you don't need to worry," Luna said aggressively. "We'll protect you. John, Gremione and the Iowles!" Sherlock smiled at her.

"I wasn't worried," Sherlock said almost fondly as John sat down beside him, putting an arm around Sherlock's shoulders. He'd just settled back, to prepare for the long ride, when the doors opened again and three more people stepped inside. Blaise, Mycroft and Colin bounced in. Well, Colin was bouncing. The other two strode in regally like the pureblood ponces they were.

"Brother, mine," Mycroft greeted sitting down next to Greg, who was seated by Luna. Colin plopped so that he was sandwiched between John and Sherlock, neither of whom seemed to mind much. Blaise just looked at them.

"Did the both of you start up threesomes and not tell me?" he asked dryly, and was awarded with four scandalized and disgusted looks and one humorous one (Luna was still obliviously reading the Quibbler).

"We're twelve" Greg said, blushing furiously.

Blaise shrugged, sitting down next to Mycroft. "That's how old my mum was when she got engaged the first time." Greg looked horrified, but Sherlock seemed to remember something.

"Mycroft?" he asked, immediately receiving his brother's full attention. "Has your father…?" Mycroft shook his head, now smiling just a bit.

"Not yet," he said. "But he informed me just yesterday that he'd be meeting with Dumbledore sometime this week." Sherlock smiled a bit, absently patting Colin on the head. They distracted themselves with idle chatter, mostly about Luna's father's paper, which had featured a theory about how Dumbledore was actually an unregistered goat animagus, until the candy trolley came around and they bought about half of the witch's entire stock.

"I can't wait until Defense class," Greg said suddenly. Mycroft, Sherlock and Colin all spat out the Bertie Botts they'd been sampling. Colin just because he's accidentally eaten a raw turtle flavored one.

"Why?" John asked, appalled. "He's horrible!"

Greg frowned. "You shouldn't say that about a teacher, John." The two Holmes brothers looked flabbergasted. "And, besides, haven't you read his books? All those things he's done!"

"Fake," Mycroft said firmly. "He's a fraud."

"I don't believe you," Greg said, narrowing her eyes at him. "You can't know everything about this world, you're just a kid." To all but two of the room's occupants, her words carried a double meaning.

"But some of the things he claimed are just impossible!" Mycroft said, eyes shining and cheeks flushing slightly with his fury at being called ignorant. "There is no _spell_ to cure a werewolf! If there was than they wouldn't be an issue! We'd just give them all Wolfsbane then hit them with the charm! And besides, the spell he cited is the ANIMAGUS revealing curse. Werewolves aren't animagi!"

"And who are you to say Mycroft doesn't know everything?" Sherlock asked, looking affronted at the very idea on behalf of his older brother. Blaise just looked amused at the two of them, like he knew something they didn't, and that just served to make Draco even more irritable.

Greg just huffed and rolled her eyes, summoning Magical Me from her trunk and sticking her nose in it. John pinched his mouth but said nothing. Colin appeared slightly confused, but he simply settled back and rested his head against the headrest, looking like he was preparing to take a nap.

"I saw him in Diagon the other day," Luna said. "The Wrackspurt's don't like him."

****1047****

Ginny sat alone in a train cabin, feeling oddly cold and still as the sunlight splashed through the slightly dusty window next to her. The rumbling of the train as it clattered along drove her headache, which she'd been nursing all morning, deeper into her skull. She exhaled, shivering for no good reason, and rubbed at the gooseflesh that had popped up along the skin of her forearms. Drawing her legs up, she pulled Tom out of her robe pouch.

Pulling a self-inking quill from inside her long sock, she put the nub to the paper, but didn't write anything. She didn't really have anything else to say to Tom, not after spending hours just the morning scribbling out anything that had been in her head at the time. The faint impression of a thought briefly slide over the top of her brain: why did writing to Tom affect her like this. But it was so fleet in passing that she barely acknowledged the thought at all and soon she was inking out questions to her new friend as easily as ever.

 _Will you tell me about your first train ride to Hogwart's, Tom?_ The response was immediate.

 ** _Why? Not that I mind, but why aren't you speaking to the other children to pass the time? The first train there was where I made all of my lifelong friends._**

Ginny bit her bottom lip. _No body sat with me, Tom. Even my brothers ran off in three different directions the moment we came to the platform. I couldn't find them anywhere. I couldn't even find my friend Luna, and I'd mentioned riding to Hogwarts with her just a few weeks ago._

 ** _What about Harry? I'm sure he'd let you sit with him and your brother._**

 _I couldn't find them either. Oh, Tom! It's so frustrating! Maybe I should go and try to find people for myself. Pretend I couldn't find an empty space, or something._

 ** _It's as good a strategy as anything._**

 _Thanks, Tom. I don't know what I'd do without you._

 ** _I assure you, Ginny, the feeling is mutual._**

***0147***

Sherlock woke, feeling comfortable and warm. Somewhere inside his brain, he felt annoyed that his young body slept so much. However, in his first life he remembered that as a young man he'd spent many a day not leaving his bed, so he supposed it was to be expected. Breathing deeply, recognizing the scent of John, Sherlock stretched his shoulders, not opening his eyes. He felt a pair of slightly dry lips press against his forehead, and his smiled. "We're almost there" John said, his arms tightening around Sherlock's middle.

Sherlock lazily opened his eyes and looked around. Blaise and Mycroft were nowhere to be seen, but Neville had replaced them, talking with Luna about the benefits of a garden full of herbs and magical defense mushrooms over vegetables and flowers. Greg was still reading Lockhart's textbooks, looking rather enthralled by them. Colin was asleep on John's otherside, leaning on the youngest male Weasley, though not to the point that Sherlock was, he noted possessively.

Sherlock sighed through his nose and arched his back, feeling the joints pop with satisfaction. John removed his arms from around him, instead taking up his hand, as was their habit, and then turning slightly to wake up Colin.

As soon as the train stopped, they stumbled together in the stream of passing students, sticking close but all ending up somewhat separated, save for John and Sherlock, who ended up together walking near the Weasley twins and Lee Jordan. The dark, athletic boy was draped over George's back, nuzzling his neck, and the twin with the pointier nose looked rather pleased with the arrangement.

"You four should go on a double date," Fred said, amused having spot his youngest brother and Sherlock. "Give me a break from their horrid flirting. I swear, Gred is worse at it than Percy. And Lee _likes_ it."

"It's adorable" Lee agreed.

"Is not!" George said, affronted, though his indignance soon faded under his boyfriend's attentions. Fred rolled his eyes. Before they knew it, they had found themselves just beyond the large, ivy riddled Hogwarts Gates at the edge of the Forbidden Forest, standing before a long train of softly luminous carriages pulled by beautifully macabre steeds. Sherlock gasped and pulled out of John's reach to race towards the magnificent equestrians.

"Sherlock?" called Gremione, confused. "What are you doing? We're getting into this one!" But Sherlock didn't seem to hear her, too spellbound by the strange winged creature as he ran his hands along the leathery flank. "Sherlock?" Gremione asked again, more concerned this time. Even John seemed worried now.

"Sherlock," John said coming closer. "Do you see something?" Sherlock frowned now, turning to look at John and studying him. John's eyes seemed to slide right through the animal, much like when one peers through glass. Sherlock frowned deeper, why did John not see it. Without a word, Sherlock picked up John's hand, gently, and placed it on the horse's side. John gasped and cautiously placed his other hand on the thing as well, slowly moving his fingers over it. The creature whinnied lowly, pleased at the attention.

"They're called Thestrals" Luna piped up, suddenly appearing out of nowhere. "Only those who had seen death can see them." She paused and looked suddenly more focused. "Those who have seen death in their life, anyway." Sherlock nodded in understanding. Though John Hamish Watson had been through war, and therefore seen death, Johnald Bilius Weasley had not. Sherlock himself had witnessed not only his own parent's murder, but Professor Quirrell's as well. And Luna had seen her mother die.

Sherlock frowned again. "But John, you saw what happened to Quirrell" John seemed sheepish, rubbing the back of his head.

"Not really," he confessed. "I was tied up, remember. When he attacked you I tried to get up and ended up falling on my face. I didn't know what happened until later." Sherlock nodded, taking John's hand once more.

"They look like Zombie Pegasus'" Sherlock said helpfully, in case John felt left out that he couldn't see such an extraordinary sight. Much to his displeasure though, John tensed and began dragging Sherlock towards the safety of the carriage, much to the young genius' displeasure as Luna skipped lightly along beside them.

Sherlock didn't pay much attention to the opening speech, nor the sorting. Not until Luna was sorted into Ravenclaw (though he'd already deduced as much), and he fell back into his own thoughts, relaxed by the familiar chatter of his John and their dormmates. That is, until Ginny went up onto the stand and John rough jerked his hand to get him to focus.

*****1047*****

Ginny felt her limbs start to quiver with nerves and excitement when "Weasley, Ginerva" called out. She felt a little better knowing that hardly anybody was paying attention to her, she could hear the happy, slightly bored chattering of the other students as she stepped up to where Professor McGonagall was standing by a tool, holding the name scroll in one hand and the heavy-looking hat in the other.

Ginny seated herself up on the stool and let the hat be placed over her eyes.

 _Well,_ said the hat. _Yet another Weasley. And just as interesting as all the rest. Such a little conundrum you are. You could be loyal, fiercely loyal. But you are not. You could be smart, well-read, but you do not apply yourself. You might have been brave, but you have never wanted to be. Tell me little Weasley, what do you most want?_

 _I want to stand out from my siblings,_ she thought fiercely, dimly aware that her brothers were probably placing bets on how long it would take for her to be sorted. By far, it was George who'd had the longest sorting, lasting a total of three minutes on the stand, to the point where Fred was worried he and his brother would be but into separate houses _. I want to be acknowledged for my talents and not as their little sister. I want to be so powerful and beautiful that no body dare compare me to my brothers._

The hat laughed. _A Tall order if I may say so, Ginerva. Remember, I've sat on the heads of each of your brothers and every Weasley before them. Warding for Goblins, Taming Dragons, Smart and driven, inventive and humorous, loving and loyal. Tell me, little Weasley, what have you that can top any of those._

 _Everything,_ she thought back fiercely. _I can do anything they can, and do it better! I'll prove it! I'll show them!_

The hat seemed to sigh. _I know just where to put you, such an ambitious child. May your goals be reached._ "Slytherin!"


	26. A Bit Not-Good

**Haha! I'm so happy with the reviews my last chapter brought in! I love it so much when you guys review! Lol, I don't want to give any spoilers, but when Tom finally meets Sherlock he's going to be…very…disappointed *evil smile*.**

 **Sorry about such a long lapse between updates, but I've had a pretty hectic April so far. Between work, extra-curricular activities and school I just haven't had any time. Please review! It makes me more motivated to write! This chapter's a little short, but Oh, Well. We should see Lucius and Dumbledore's meeting in the next one, I think. Maybe. Lol.**

The hat seemed to sigh. _I know just where to put you, such an ambitious child. May your goals be reached._ "Slytherin!" Ginny felt her entire world slow to a stop. Members of the Slytherin table turned to look at her with varying expressions of incredulousness, disgust, surprise and anger. However, it was a surprising few. Most of the younger half barely seemed to bat an eyelash, and those that did were the purebloods like Parkinson. The hat was lifted off her head and a gentle hand pushed lightly at her shoulder, prodding her off the stool. With shaking legs, she marched down the aisle to the table which housed the green clad quarter of the school, feeling a bit like she was marching towards a guillotine.

She sat down near a pretty girl who looked vaguely familiar with lily white hair and shimmering brown eyes. The girl gave her a kind smile, and patted her hand, almost consolingly. Ginny dared sneak a peek across the table at her brothers. Ron smiled at her, raising a glass as if to say "cheers", Percy looked pensive and the twins were openly gawking with their jaws hanging. Ginny blushed and ducked her head, then peered back up, fighting a blush to see Harry staring at her, eyebrows drawn together. Slowly, Harry smiled at her, and Ginny felt warm. Ginny smiled back, before her eyes flickered down to stare at her plate.

"I'm Astoria" the pretty blonde said to her, her voice soft and hesitant. "You're Ginerva, am I correct?" Ginny looked up at her. Astoria's eyes were hopeful, but cautious. Greengrass, Ginny remembered from the girl's earlier sorting. A pureblood. Her mum had often told Ginny that many purebloods never got that chance to make many friends until Hogwarts, because their parents would keep them hidden away until they learned to be "proper". Ginny had never known how much of that was true, and how much of it was jealousy, but if it was…Ginny felt a lurch of sympathy for her new Housemate.

"Call me Ginny," she said confidently. Just because she wasn't a Gryffindor, didn't mean she couldn't be brave. A thought occurred to her, about what Tom would think of Ginny, a Weasley, becoming a Slytherin. Since Tom was a Ravenclaw, he wasn't likely to be biased about Slytherins, would he? Worry gnawed at her gut, but for the most part, as she chatted with Astoria over their food filled plates, she was able to ignore it.

******1047*******

Dumbledore watched the children eating, and wanted to curse, though he refrained because of how many people were around him. He'd made a mistake, as much as he was loathe to admit it. But what was done was done, and all he could do is continue what he'd started and pray things ended up well. Now al he had to do was worry about Lucius, who was coming to secure a contract for his son and young Mister Potter next evening.

Albus felt some regret at his latest scheme, because he was potentially endangering his newfound alliance with the Malfoy family. But because Lockhart had failed to gain the boy's admiration, Albus really didn't know what else to do. The boy had to be brought under control before he grew too old.

Of course, when he had made these plans, he hadn't counted on Miss Weasley becoming a Slytherin. There had never, in the history of all Weasley's been a Slytherin amongst them, not even through marriage. Septemus Weasley was a Ravenclaw, yes, but that was the closest they'd come. Albus watched Harry smile at Ginny from across the busy room, and he sighed to himself. It might be interesting to see how it all unfolded, he thought as he tried to tune out Gilderoy retelling how he had valiantly trekked across the wilds of New Zealand in search of a cursed relic.

****1047*****

Sherlock was…intrigued. Which he found odd. Because, for once, this novel feeling wasn't aimed at a particularly not-boring murder or his John, but rather at John's little sister, Ginny. Sherlock watched her, and, when her gaze caught his he smiled briefly. Then he frowned as soon as she looked away, wondering why he'd done that. He was only half listening to Gremione, Neville and John discuss why Ginny was put into Slytherin, despite the fact he was curious about it himself.

She had never stuck him as cunning nor sly. And he hadn't observed her enough for him to learn of any ambitions she might have. He watched her, trying to deduce her, and was uncomfortable when he realized that he couldn't, though he did notice that she had rather lovely hair.

Sherlock blinked. He didn't even _like_ red hair. Sherlock screwed up his nose, did he? His brain was feeling a bit odd. Sherlock cleared his throat, which he realized felt dry, and a bit gritty. Swallowing roughly, he picked up his now half-empty goblet of pumpkin juice he took a deep swig for the fourth time that night. Why was he feeling so thirsty? Perhaps he should speak to Severus later, have the older wizard examine him just in case he was ill.

Sherlock was about to pick a small piece of smoked turkey from John's plate when the platter of treacle tart caught his eye, and Sherlock suddenly realized he was craving a piece. He sat still for a moment and tried to remember even having _craved_ anything before. Picking up his fork, he reached over and speared a chunk, plopping it in his mouth. It was…surprisingly good. Sherlock loaded a large serving onto his plate and scooped another bit into his mouth.

Ron looked over at him, amused. "You should be eating more than just sweets, mate," he said good naturedly, though Sherlock didn't take him too seriously. The blonde Weasley was currently working his way through something marshmallow-y. John's hand gripped his from under the table, and Sherlock had to fight the knee-jerk reaction to pull his hand away, not wanting to offend his friend.

Sherlock finished off what was on his plate, and he felt uncomfortably full, warm and heavy. John's hand in his own was clammy, slightly sweaty. Sherlock started feeling anxious and irritable, but still didn't pull away in case it offended Ron. Sherlock knuckled at his forehead. It was pounding. He took a deep breath. Merlin, he was having trouble breathing like there was a weight on his lungs, or a band strapped around them. He couldn't get a full breath. Yes, he should definitely see Snape tomorrow to see what was wrong—no, Madam Pomfrey would be better. Snape would probably just ignore him.

Suddenly, people were standing up. The dishes on the table disappearing as they were whisked away by the House Elves' magic. John pulled Sherlock to his feet. "Come on, Sleepyhead," John's voice was soft and fond. "Time for bed." Sherlock nodded, and allowed himself to be guided up to their dorm, blearily noting the password (bilge snipe). Stiffly, almost robotically, Sherlock pulled off his coat, slacks and shirt, folding them and placing them next to the uniform robes Severus had insisted he buy. Then he pulled out his nightclothes and laboriously tumbled into them. Sherlock collapsed on his own bed just as John was coming out of the bathroom, already in his Pjs.

"When was the last time you slept?" John asked him worried. Sherlock gave a non-committal grunt. Sighing, John began to slide into bed with him. Sherlock sat up, feeling rather alarmed, but unable to pin point why. "Sherlock?" John asked, freezing in place, half in and half out of bed.

"We're a little old to be sharing, John," Sherlock said, his voice sounding strange in his own ears. John didn't move, he had an unreadable expression on his face. Sherlock watched, stiffly still, as his best friend leaned forward and tenderly kissed his cheek, lips lingering. Then John stood on his own feet and tugged and the covers on Sherlock's bed, until they were freed from under Sherlock's body. John then proceeded to tuck in the slight boy before he padded the few feet to his own bed.

Sherlock watched him, as his eyes grew heavy, never noticing the worried looks on the faces of their dormmates.

*****1047*****

Ginny almost dove into bed that night, feeling overwhelmed with the world. Astoria had been nice, and a first year boy, Roman Bulstrode who had an elder sister in their House, had decided to introduce himself sometime into the meal. They'd been friendly enough, but before long Ginny had felt a deep longing to be alone. Claiming fatigue, she'd separated from the group nearly as soon as they'd reached the Slytherin Common room, speeding through her night-time hygienic rituals and changing into a loose night gown.

Once the curtains around her bed were fully blocking the world from her view, she rummaged around under her pillow for where she had placed Tom earlier. She wasted no time summoning a self-inking quill purely on intent, and didn't bother warning Tom with her presence with meaningless formalities. _I'm in Slytherin._ She wrote, and without waiting for Tom's familiar scrawl to appear she quickly penned an additional _The first Weasley ever._

It didn't take long to respond **.** ** _Congratulations! Oh, how exciting! I had many good friends in Slytherin during my Hogwart's career! Speaking of, have you met any friends? Last you told me you were having trouble._**

 _Oh, no need to worry about me! I think a girl named Astoria Greengrass would make a good friend, and she's really very nice. Also, a boy named Roman was very kind to us. You know, Tom, I was so afraid at first when the hat shouted out its decision. I thought everyone would pitch a fit, or say I didn't belong there. But it was only a few of the older students that didn't look happy. My brother's seemed okay with it and Harry even smiled at me. He SMILED at me!_

 ** _Well, you've certainly proven yourself to be interesting. And from what you've told me young Mr. Potter seems to like puzzling things out. This is good! Not as great as it would have been if you'd been sorted into Ravenclaw, but still good!_**

 _Oh, Tom…_

*****1047******

Sherlock woke up feeling…strange. His thoughts were a bit muddled, but perhaps that was just because it was early morning? He was also very hungry. Something that Sherlock annoyedly contributed to Severus' enormous meals, which he was forced to devour. Sherlock scrubbed at his hair, pulling the strands, trying to clear his head. But it didn't seem to help. Reluctantly, Sherlock slid out of bed and padded towards the bathroom, intent on ridding his mouth of the foul taste of morning.

John was already in there, washing his face until his cheeks stung red. He smiled at Sherlock, though dimly Sherlock noted that there was something slightly off about his friend's smile. Sherlock shrugged it off, deciding to puzzle it out later. In his haze of vagueness, he never realized his year mates all but tip-toeing around him. He didn't notice John's four abandoned attempts to reach for his hand, nor the hurt look on Greg's face when he sat down between Seamus and Dean, across from John, with no room for her in his immediate proximity.

The inane babble of the Great Hall was somewhat soothing to Sherlock as he shoveled eggs, rolls and gravy, sausages and bacon onto his plate, then into his mouth. Dean and Neville shared a concerned look while John and Greg seemed slightly afraid. "Hungry, are you?" Seamus asked good-naturedly.

"Famished" Sherlock replied around a mouth full of breakfast. He was about to blame it all on Snape and his unreasonable dietary regulations, but then remembered that he was asked to keep his stay with the Potion Master a secret. So instead he refilled his mouth with gravy-covered bacon, and downed it with a deep gulp of juice. Sherlock thought he could feel the cloudiness in his brain lift a bit. Ah, Sherlock mentally nodded to himself. Low Blood sugar, presumably brought about by the large amount of sugar consumered before bed which caused his body to overcompensate and dissolve too much of the necessary sugars that his body required to function. Sherlock frowned, hoping that his current body didn't suffer from something such as Hypoglycemia as it would be detrimental to him should he ever decide to become a consulting Detective again.

Class Schedules were handed out by a hard-eyed McGonagall. Sherlock tried to decuduce why she would be so stiff, but none of them rang true. Was she tired due to a restless night? Was it worry? Was she annoyed with one of her collegues? Sherlock turned his eyes down to the sheet resting next to his nearly-empty plate, and registered with a groan that the first class that morning was Double Potions with the Slytherins.

"Are you alright, Sherlock?" asked John in a low voice. Sherlock glanced up briefly and nodded, waving a careless hand in the air.

"Fine, fine. Just looking over the list for today." Sherlock ignored the aimless small talk around him, which continued one until pleased comments and the fluttering of a hundred wings alerted him to the mail arriving. Hedwig landed on the table in front of him, and held her leg out, showing that a pouch had been secured to it. Feeding her some of the food still on his place, Sherlock emptied the contents of the bag, which proved to be a mail order he had sent out a week ago. Materials on how magic could be applied in modern muggle medicine. It had been meant as a gift for John. Thinking to save them for another time, he placed the shrunken books back in the bag, and stuffed it into his pocket. Ian had dropped several letters, one at each Weasley plate (the twins count as one being in this case), before soaring off to the other side of the room to deliver a last message to Ginny.

John pried his letter open with a thumb nail and slid the parchment out. Sherlock watched has his eyes slid swiftly over the writing, a small smile on his face. "How are you parents, John?" Sherlock asked, surprising himself that he actually somewhat cared about the answer. John grinned at him.

"They're surprised about Ginny's sorting, Percy owled them last night, but Dad's pleased that you've already worn down a lot of the bigotry between the houses, so she shouldn't be given much trouble. He's in line for a promotion as well, I hope he gets it." John then let his eyes fall back to the letter. "He says to tell you 'thanks', but he doesn't say what for."

Sherlock frowns, trying to think of what he could have done to earn Arthur's gratitude, but came up short. "Perhaps he's thanking me for inadverdantly causing Ginny's Slytherin experience to be less of a trial?" Sherlock suggested, and John nodded, accepting the answer.

The buzzing in his head grew to almost unbearable heights as he made his way to the desk he shared with John in the Potion's Lab. He was thankful for John's grip on his hand, though he did deduce that John was somewhat hesitant in initiating contact, what for, Sherlock didn't know. Sherlock squeezed his best friends hand back in thanks and John flashed him a blinding grin, which Sherlock attempted to return.

Snape banged into the classroom, the door swinging violently behind him, his robed billowing with each step. Sherlock frowned deeply, not even knowing why. "This year we shall be attempting an assortment of potions which are primarily transmogrifying in nature. Can anyone give be a definition and an example of one such potion?"

Draco, Greg and John's hands all shot up in the air. And while it was no surprise that Sherlock wasn't as eager to pander to Snape's request as the other three, his lack of response and seeming apathy caused the Potion Master to quirk an eyebrow in his summer ward's direction. "Yes, Mr. Malfoy" Sherlock barely listened as his archnemisis primly prattled off something about a pickling potion. He slipped into a light daze, and was only broken out of it by the sound of his name. "Mr. Potter" Snape's voice snapped "What would be the effect of a Chrysanthemum dipped in a mixture of ashwinder egg yolk, kneazle milk, ground bone of the _Pantherophis_ _guttatus_ and a drop of moray eel mucus?"

"A large mess" Sherlock muttered. Snape's eyes narrowed at him.

"Try again," the dour man snapped. Sherlock strained to remember what he'd read about it, a faint feeling of alarm rose when he found that he had no recollection of any such thing. Then he scowled, realizing that it was probably a trick question, and the greasy old git was probably just messing with him.

"I don't know," Sherlock said, bored.

Sherlock was not paying attention to what was around him. If he had been, he would have noted the way the entire class froze, and seemed to hold its breath. Never, never _ever_ had any of them (save John and Draco) heard those words fall from Sherlock's lips. Sherlock flinched at the sudden cold feeling of John's hand on his forehead.

"He's been acting odd all day, sir," John said quietly.

"I'm fine, Ron!" Sherlock snapped, loudly. Snape stared long and hard at him. Sherlock felt a headache coming on, and instinctively locked the doors to his mind palace. Snape scowled at him, and Sherlock scowled right back.

"Five points from Gryffindor," Snape hissed lowly, "and detention with me, tonight. Seven sharp." Sherlock did not dignify this order with a response, only stubbornly meeting Snape's gaze. After what was several tense and uncomfortable minutes, Severus swirled, robes flaring. "Ms. Granger can you perhaps answer the question!" the way he barked out the question made it note really sound like a question.

"If later buried, it would sprout into a rose tree," she said quietly, not at all bubbly and bouncy as she usually was when answering a question. Sherlock glared at his cauldron, not seeing the almost terrified look on Mycroft's face. Later in that class, when his and John's potion turned out a thick mass of wobbly pink slime rather than the turquoise liquid they were going for, the Gryffindor and Slytherin second years didn't know whether to be horrifically surprised or afraid.

As Sherlock left the room, a careless air about him, Severus felt his heart shrivel just a tiny bit.


	27. The Boy in the Cupboard

**Hey guys! Sorry it's been a while since my last update, it's just with finals and everything going on there hasn't been any time. But the good news is, I passed all my exams and I'M OFFICIALLY A HIGH SCHOOL GRADUATE! *whoops like a monkey*. So glad the nightmare that is high school is officially over. Thank you for your patience, and I hope you guys like this chapter!**

 **May the gods be ever in your favor,**

 **~James**

Aeldin was…lonely. Not that he would ever, _ever_ admit it. He'd matured in form quite a bit over the summer, and he now stood towering over Sherlock whenever the boy fancied to pay him a visit. The horcrux assumed that he may appear to be somewhere around mid-twenties in appearance. As it was, the small room in Sherlock's head which he was confined to was…getting cramped. The four, ugly, peeling walls seemed closer than ever. The shifting mass of the ceiling seemed uncomfortably close to his head. The couch he'd conjured for himself was comfortable enough, but there was little to occupy Aeldin's mind with, now that he had scoured through the memories that his host would allow him to see.

Aeldin was aware that Sherlock was hiding something from him. Something that would vastly alter his entire understanding of the child. And so Aeldin took great interest in "deducing" (as Sherlock would call it) the boy when the youngster came to ask Aeldin a favor or to ask him a question on animagus transformation.

But the boy hadn't shown himself in quite a while now. And while Aeldin was most defiantly _not worried_ he **was** bored. Out of his mind with boredom, almost. It was because of this boredom that Aeldin began randomly ranting about the room as though somebody was around to appreciate his ire. It was oddly reminiscent of his days as a Dark Lord, and Aeldin wondered if Sherlock would consider it a "bit not good" for him to be recalling _crucio_ castings on his servants with bittersweet emotion, somewhat akin to longing.

Perhaps it was this memory that caused him to lash out at the door. Lo and behold, a week purple shimmer extended from his palm. It dissipated against the door, but it was the first sign of _magic,_ not mental manipulation nor the illusion of power brought about by the fact that Aeldin was currently imprisoned in a 12 year old's skull, but true _magic_ that he had seen since he'd regained awareness in this strange cell of his.

A grin split across his face, though he did hesitate, wondering if he should really be casting _crucio_ in a little boy's brain. And so he decided on a safer spell to hurl at the door. " _BOMBARDA!"_

****1047****

Lucius marched up towards the Headmasters office with no small degree of satisfaction. If he were a lesser man, he'd have a smirk firmly plastered across his face, but as it was the only clue that gave away his pleased mood was the minute loosening of the tension in his shoulders as he marched up the stairs behind the hideous guarding gargoyle. The door opened before him, and Lucius automatically noted Dumbledore's oddly pensive eyes, though the old man quickly covered it with a benign twinkle in his eyes and a kindly smile.

"Ah! Lord Malfoy, so glad you could make it!" Dumbledore said, spreading his arms wide as though he wanted a hug. Lucius ignored the gesture and primly sat down in the chair across from the Headmaster. "I trust you've been well?"

"I have, thank you," Lucius said smoothly. "Young Mr. Potter has exchanged many letters with my wife and myself, and he and Draco get along swimmingly. During the duration of his stay at our home the two barely left each other's side. I did broach the topic with Draco, and though he were alarmed at first at the thought of marriage, the two became even closer after the revelation, which leads me to believe my son shared this information with Mr. Potter, and the young man found himself pleased."

Dumbledore frowned. "It was never agreed upon to let Harry know, you shouldn't have acted so without consulting me first." Lucius arched an eyebrow at Dumbledore implying Lucius was, at the moment, at all answerable to him.

"But headmaster," Lucius said innocently. "I didn't. I only told my son, as is my right when considering a potential suitor for him, after all. I had no control over Sherlock being told." Dumbledore's frown eased, though his eyes were still hard.

"Of course, of course. It hardly matters now, anyway," Dumbledore sighed heavily and retrieved a scroll from his desk, unraveling it on the space between the two wizards, and summoning a quill and inkpot closer to them. "I have given much thought to this over the summer, and I do believe that it is in best interest of both the boys. However, as you can see," Albus said as Lucius began looking over the contract with a critical Slytherin's eye "Both heirs will only have access to their own vaults and inheritance, and we, as guardians, have no claim to what is in them. Harry will become Lord Potter and Draco will become Lord Malfoy upon your death; the title of Consort will belong to them only if they so choose. Furthermore, Harry will not be considered a member of House Malfoy until his husband is Lord Malfoy. You understand, I'm sure?"

Lucius did not answer until he had finished reading it over. "Of course," he said distantly. Obviously the old man didn't want Lucius using this binding contract to force Sherlock into becoming dark using the family magic, but at the same time…. "I will agree to this if you relinquish your control over the Potter Family Magics to its rightful heir, and put off Sherlock from coming into his Lordship until the traditional age of sixteen." Dumbledore raised an eyebrow, thinking it over. Then he nodded, slowly.

Lucius deftly picked up the quill and signed his name in a quick but neat scrawl, than passed the utensil over to the Headmaster, who did the same. Dumbledore flicked his wrist, his wand shooting out from his deep sleeve. He made a circular motion, then slashed downward while incanting "Quod ita scriptum est: sic fiat semper—" but before he could finish the spell, a force of magic, colored a startling combination of Malfoy Silver and pure white, shot out in a thick wave. It knocked Dumbledore back, sitting down heavily in his chair, the wind knocked out of him. Lucius wasn't as affected, the only way you could tell he had been was the messy state of his long hair, and the gobsmacked look on his face.

"I-I-what—" Dumbledore said helplessly. "I don't understand" he said, picking up the parchment. Lucius stood, taking the parchment from him, his eyes narrowed in suspicion. He stepped around the desk, to Dumbledore's fireplace, and picked up a handful of Floo Powder.

"Gringott's Lobby!" He shouted, throwing down the powder into the flames.

***1047****

Severus watched the little boy as he muttered sullenly to himself while he scrubbed out the inside of a giant cauldron. The little boy who had wormed his way into Severus' heart. The little boy who Severus would go above and beyond his Oath for. This child that Severus would deny to ever consider as his own.

The boy that currently was acting nothing like himself. Severus was not a Potion's Master for nothing. As the child scrubbed away, Severus had been shooting monitoring, examining and diagnostic spells at his back. But there was no sign of anything aside from an _extremely_ weak love potion that would honestly have no effect on the boy anyway because of his huge magical core.

Just to be safe, Severus spent ten minutes carefully, discretely dispelling it from his body. Before he knew it, an hour and a half had passed, but still, nothing.

Severus was growing desperate, trying hard and failing to suppress the panic he'd been feeling since Potion's class earlier that day, and had grown when his Godson and the little Weasley boy had come to beg him to examine Sherlock. The Little Weasley was in tears, and Draco had been extremely distraught. Surprisingly, many of his fellow collogues, older students, younger students, _Nearly Headless Nick_ and even Mr. Filch had come begging Severus to find what was wrong with the child that seemed to have endeared himself to every being in the castle.

There was only one option left to Severus, but it had to be done and he brushed away any guilt that he felt. It was for the brat's own good. Severus readied a vial in his hand, and he began chanting an, admittedly, Dark spell. The fact that Sherlock didn't notice was testament to how off the boy was acting. Five minutes later, and Severus now held a small vial of the little boy's blood, which he carefully placed in his breast pocket.

"You may leave, Mr. Potter," Severus snapped. He needed to get the blood to Pomfrey as fast as possible. Sherlock, the normally sweet but lofty genius, sneered at him and threw down his scrub brush. His adorable features contorted in a way that twisted Severus' insides, reminding him of his childhood tormentor.

Without a word, Sherlock stood to his feet, turned on his heel, and stalked out the door of the office, slamming the door on his way out. Severus couldn't waste the precious moments he wanted to, to allow himself to feel pain at the child's actions, instead hurriedly Flooing to the infirmary.

***1047***

John looked up at Sherlock as his best friend walked through the door. Though Sherlock ignored him as he pulled his Potion stained outer robe over his head, tossing it to the floor where it would be recovered by a House Elf later, and plopped down on his bed, face first. John slid out of bed and cautiously approached Sherlock, sitting on the edge of his bed. "That bad, huh?" John tried to say cheerfully.

Sherlock groaned something that sounded like "Greasy old bat". John chewed his bottom lip before saying "He loves you, you know that right?" Sherlock then looked up at John with equal measures of disgust and _are you kidding me?_ John twitched, drawing his legs up and wrapping his arms around them.

"Are-are you feeling alright?" John asked him gently. Sherlock frowned at him.

"Fine," he said shortly. He didn't elaborate at all. John wasn't that surprised. Gently, John leaned forward and tried to kiss Sherlock's temple, as he had often done previously. But a harsh shove sent him sprawling off the bed. "Ron!"

John looked up at him, at a loss. He felt so confused. He felt like hitting something. "Sherlock?"

"Stop _calling_ me that! Honestly, Ron, what's _with you_? You and Hermione have been acting so _off_. I'm thinking it's the two of **you** that should go get Madam Pomfrey to check out your heads. Really, we're not little kids anymore. It's weird to hang off of each other. I love you, mate, I really do. But you're just being plain weird about it." Sherlock…Harry was frowning at John like he'd grown a second head. No, he was frowning at John like a NORMAL person would frown at something if it grew a second head. John's Sherlock would be horrifyingly interested if something grew a second head.

"Right!" John tried to laugh it off. "Sorry. You know my family, though, Harry. We're always hanging off of each other. And you're like a brother to me, so I guess it's hard to treat you, you know, just like a friend." John finished weakly, but Harry seemed to accept it.

"Oh, yeah. That's fine, Ron. I'd just rather you tone it down a bit, in front of people at least." Harry looked around at seemed to realize the they were the only ones in the dorm, Creevy and Seamus having gone to look for Dean and Neville having gone to check out an evening plant with Professor Sprout in the Green Houses. "Sorry I pushed you," Harry said bashfully. "You surprised me, is all."

"It's alright, mate," John tried to smile back. "I'm going to go fine G-Granger, real fast." Harry nodded wearily, laying back down. With a rush of a bold, painful, unidentifiable emotion, John darted forward and kissed Harry's nose before he could react, then he darted out of the room, closing the door behind him.

Greg wasn't in the common room, and since John couldn't go into the girl's dorm, he did the next best thing and ran out of Gryffindor Tower, running towards the dungeons like the devil was on his heels.

****1047****

Lucius was fuming as he stormed across the floor of the bank. Goblins raised eyebrows questioningly as he passed with Dumbledore close in his wake. His hand was gripping the parchment tightly; he could hear it crackling under his fingers. He was aware he was causing a scene, but at the moment he couldn't care less. All his careful planning and this old fool managed to somehow mess it up. Not only that, but his son would be devastated and Lucius could almost see the look of heartbreak on his precious dragon's face when he was forced to tell him the bonding contract had failed. What had Lucius missed? Wasn't Dumbledore Potter's guardian? Or was Black still in possession of the Potter heir's Godfathership?

By muscle-memory, he wound his way through the labyrinth that was Gringotts towards his personal Goblin's office area. He barely paused to knock before it swung open before him. His Goblin, Fleishack, was sitting at his desk, staring at him with an uncanny look of expectancy.

"Lord Malfoy" Fleishack drawled, his black, beady eyes glinting in the flickering light the crackling fireplace behind him gave. Lucius forced himself to calm down, it was never good to deal with Goblins when not in complete control of oneself. He sighed deeply, unclentching his fists, then gracefully seated himself across from the Goblin. As there were no other chairs, Dumbledore was forced to stand behind him, though if the old man felt awkward about this, he took care not to show it.

"How might I help you," the Goblin asked, his head tilting in a way that, if this were any other creature, Lucius might have called mischievous. Though he wanted to throw down the contract in disgust, Lucius gingerly placed the parchment on the desk. Fleishack's claws scooped it up and onced, bringing it to the Goblin's gaze. "I'm assuming you found some fault in the contract?"

"No," Lucius denied. "The contract was fine. However, upon finishing the sealing of it, the magic rebelled. I wish to know why." The last sentence was bit out between clenched teeth. Fleishack hummed, dragging his claws along the parchment before putting it down.

"I'm surprised this was attempted," the Goblin said, his fangs gleaming white. "Almost as much as I'm surprised they did not tell you." A gravelly chuckle escaped the Goblin as he shook his head. "I apologize, Lord Malfoy, but there is no possible way to seal a marriage bond between your heir and one Lord Potter."

"Lord Potter?" Lucius spluttered.

"Indeed" Fleshack's grin looked almost manic now. "A fortnight ago, your heir and the young, then Heir Potter, came to the bank and paid not only for a bond, but for Heir Potter's emancipation and Lordship." The Goblin's fangs almost seemed to elongate with its extremely pleased expression. "They have been bonded since early summer, and Odiclaw, the one who fastened the bond between them, has told me that a stronger brother's bond he has never seen."

Lucius was in shock. He recalled how vehemently Draco had denied wanting to marry Sherlock, but then the very next day, he'd found them laughing together, all but tangled up in the thick grass of the Malfoy Gardens. He'd assumed they'd come to terms with it, and found themselves pleased. Now, he realized belatedly that they must have already decided on their little scheme by that point.

And yet, Lucius was not displeased. Sherlock would still be an official, if honorary, member of the Malfoy family, just as Draco could call upon the aid of the Potter house if he ever had any need. Furthermore, Draco would still be able to marry into another Line, securing yet another strong tie for the Malfoys. Honestly, if the boys had just told Lucius of their plan, he would have approved. In fact, the boys' plan was far superior to Lucius' original idea.

Still, Lucius sighed deeply, feeling a fond exasperation for his son and the boy whom he'd come to care for. Narcissa would most likely be just as pleased with the arrangement. Dumbledore truly had no influence over Draco, nor Sherlock anymore, excepting his role as Headmaster.

Lucius thanked the Goblin for his time, and gracefully rose from his seat. Nodding respectfully to the Headmaster, who had a look on his face akin to one who'd accidently swallowed a spider, he made his way back to the lobby. Allowing himself a private, tiny smile, Lucius considered when an opportune time to visit his boys would be.

***1047***

"…I don't see any irregularities, Severus," Madam Pomfrey said slowly. Normally, the matronly woman would be appalled at the Potion Master's actions. Taking blood from a witch or wizard without express permission was punishable by ten years in Azkaban, then death by the Bloodletting curse. And yet, just this morning she'd seen for herself just how unwell Sherlock Potter was. Every morning last year, Draco Malfoy made a point of coming over to the Gryffindor table and greeting Sherlock, along with various other Gryffindor First Years. In fact, he'd done it so consistently and often, that he was typically openly welcomed with grins, friendly banter and even the occasional rough housing that young children often engaged in. It wasn't uncommon, by the end of last year, to see the Malfoy and Potter Heirs seated side by side, so close that the entire length of their arms were in contact.

But that morning, young Malfoy had come over to the Gryffindor table, making a direct path towards Sherlock. Draco had even greeted Sherlock with a fond smile, an expression that was rare to see on his pale features, and had raised a hand to place on the smaller boy's shoulder. A hand that had quickly and viciously been slapped away. Harry had sneered at Draco, calling him a "Baby Death Eater" and a "Slimy Snake". It had escalated from there, until Professor McGonagall was forced to intervene before it came to blows, dishing out detention to Sherlock and a warning to Draco.

Madam Pomfrey was well acquainted with the stoic masks of the Slytherin students, as well as the almost legendary Malfoy composure. But as the young Slytherin slowly walked back to his own table, Madam Pomfrey was almost certain she spied tears in those tired, silver eyes. And that wasn't the only instance she observed of the usually fair Gryffindor acting far out of character. He'd mocked several first year Hufflepuffs, calling that House "Hogwart's Dumping Grounds". He'd "accidentally" spilled the contents of a second years' book bag in the hall, telling the girl it only served her right for being such a "nerdy know-it-all" and carrying so many books about the castle. And almost the most disturbing of all, was when Sherlock publicly tore into Neville Longbottom, calling him "Fat" and "Useless".

And yet, there was nothing she could find odd about the blood sample illegally taken from Hogwarts's former favored child. "I'm sorry," she said passionately, feeling a helpless sort of anger. "If I had a sample of his blood from before all this happened, it might be more clear. But as it is, his blood appears to be normal."

"But he _isn't_ 'normal', Poppy" Severus said, almost at a whisper, his hands clenched at his sides. "It's as though the ghost of James Potter has come back to haunt me, taking away the last bit of Lily's goodness from me." And suddenly Poppy was transported back in time, remembering a younger man she treated for a broken leg and multiple abrasions. She remembered the cruel laughter of Gryffindor bullies, and the gentle soothings of a sweet redhaired angel who refused to leave Severus' bedside. She placed a hand on his shoulder.

"I'm not giving up, Severus," she said gently. "Merely explaining to you my findings. Rest assured, I _will_ find what is wrong with him." She paused. "Though, I'm just a Mediwitch. I may have to call upon the help of one of my colleagues from St. Mungos." Severus opened his mouth to protest, but Poppy continued before he could speak. "I trust this woman with my life," she said. "I know she'll be discreet. And as a fellow Hufflepuff, you can promise yourself that she's as loyal as they come." The tension in the Professor's shoulders ebbed away, just the smallest bit.

"Keep an eye on him," Poppy instructed him. "If there's any further change, let me know. And if there's any more acting out, give him detention with me." Severus nodded his understanding. "Also, it might not hurt to question the House Elves in charge of serving the food." Severus shook his head.

"I already did so," he said heavily. "They insisted they added nothing to the food aside from what seasonings they typically add." Poppy sighed, but accepted that the House Elves probably had nothing to do with it. "Poppy," the Mediwitch looked up at him. "If it was in the food, wouldn't the entire Student Population be acting odd?" Poppy frowned.

"I don't know," she said, frustrated, her brow deeply wrinkled. "I just don't know."

***0147***

Harry didn't like it when people spoke about him, particularly when it was behind his back. He almost felt paranoid for feeling to anxious about it, but then again, he could _hear_ them. Hear them wondering what was wrong with him (what are they talking about? Nothing's 'wrong' with him), if he broke up with 'John' (they were never going out in the first place. Honestly. Harry's going to have to talk to Ron about not being so darn cuddly all the time), about what happened between him and Snape (this might be the most disturbing of all) and if Harry was actually an impostor.

He was seriously getting sick of all the looks he was getting, in class from other Houses, and in the Dorm or at meals with his own. He honestly didn't mind it when Ron pressed against his side, as though looking for comfort. But it was embarrassing. Though, Harry always felt kind of bad about telling him off for it, after all, Ron was just doing what they'd always done. And Ron _had_ been babied for most of his life, since he'd been a cripple before Hogwarts.

Harry winced, looking over at where his best friend was slumped rather dejectedly in one of the cushy chairs in front of the Gryffindor Common Room's fireplace. Harry sighed. That kid looked like a kicked puppy, a twinge of guilt flashed through him. He was treating Ron no better than how the Dursleys treat him, expecting Harry to be something he wasn't. Harry realized, with no small amount of shame, that Ron was simply the kind of person who needed to have physical contact. It made sense, after all, the twins tended to walk on either side of Ron, each with an arm slung about Ron's shoulders. Percy gave him hugs quite regularly. And, even though Ginny was occupied with those slimy Slytherin's she got stuck with, he knew that even she sort of spoiled him. And up until this year, when Harry realized how weird it was for boys their age to cuddle, Harry had also indulged him.

Heaving a sigh, Harry walked away from the enchanted chess set he'd been using to play against himself, and picked up his Transfiguration Text book that he'd left lying there an hour ago. Ignoring the other people in the room trying to subtly stare at him, Harry wriggled into the seat, which was meant for one, next to his friend. "Budge over" he said, disregarding Ron's surprised face. Ron obliged, making room for Harry. Once he was comfortable enough, Harry cracked open his text book to a random spot and began pretending to read it, feeling Ron's gaze against his face.

Hesitantly, Ron began to relax, his weight falling comfortably against Harry, his forehead leaning against Harry's shoulder. Deciding that he could indulge Ron a bit more, here in the safety of the Common Room, Harry stretched out an arm, letting his hand fall against Ron's side and tugging his best friend ever so slightly closer.

Ron heaved a peculiar sounding sigh. "I miss you," he said quietly, hiding his face in Harry's robe, though Harry had already spied a trace of dampness on his face. "I miss you, so much." Frowning, Harry tried to look down at him, but was thwarted by Ron's head pillowed in the crook of his neck, preventing him from moving it very far.

"I'm right here, mate," Harry said, just as quietly. Tilting his head slightly up, Ron pressed his dry lips to Harry's jaw, lingering for several long moments. His hand found Harry's, their fingers falling into place around each other. Ron pulled his face back, then kissed Harry again, higher up, almost on the corner of his lips. Harry close his eyes and let him, feeling a peculiar warmth in his chest and a dry knot in his throat. He swallowed, feeling Ron graze his cheek one last time, before settling back down, his head against Harry's chest, both arms wrapped tightly about him. Harry put down the book, which had been drooping in his hand, steadily lower, and returned the embrace.

Maybe…they weren't too old for this…

Harry held Ron tighter. "I'm right here"

******1047*******

It almost started getting normal after that. Except, Harry still didn't apply himself to anything, and his grades slipped from being straight O's to a mess of A's and E's, with the occasional P thrown in for good measure. Also, Harry had stopped associating with anyone outside of the Gryffindor Second year boys, even Granger, with the sole exception of the Weasley family. He wasn't openly hostile anymore, unless a Slytherin came directly to him. Not since he realized it upset Ginny and Ron.

But a collective sigh of relief was let out when Harry and Ron began spending more time in each other's company once more, though Harry no longer solely ate from Ron's plate, nor did they hold hands in the halls. But they did always sit beside each other, as inseparable as ever.

Even still, no body had any idea what was going on with the young man. No body, that is, but Lockhart who was just _full_ of ideas.

"It because fame spoiled him! It's a blessing I'm as steadfast as I am, or I, too, might have become as unagreeable as Mr. Potter!"

"It's the Yojokiki curse! Nasty thing, rot's your brain and leaves you craving lemons. Horrible, horrible."

"A Loloritu Bug bit him!"

"He's possessed by a demon! Lucky for all of you, I'm quite adept in exorcisms! Professor Snape, if you could be so kind as to provide me with oil from the Gruti Flower?"

"Obviously, he's being impersonated by a Death Eater using Polyjuice! Quick, someone grab hold of him while I contact the press—I mean—suitable authorities."

It was worst when the Second Years were in DADA class. Lockhart often tired his own 'cures' on Harry, some which landed him in the infirmary, some which caused Harry to land _Lockhart_ in the infirmary.

"Just try to ignore him, Harry" Ginny soothed him, one afternoon, not noticing how tense her older brother was standing as she embraced the ravenhaired Gryffindor. "He's just jealous of how famous you are. He's only well known among certain circles but _everyone_ knows _your_ name." As Harry preened under her attentions, whispers of "Homewrecker" were echoed about the Great Hall.

For John, it was hardest at night. That was when he was most reminded of how different "Harry" was from "Sherlock". Sherlock used to spend _ages_ tending to his hair, cleaning it meticulously and combing out the curls so that it wouldn't be too much of a mess the next morning. Sherlock used to stare intently in the mirror while he brushed his teeth for three minutes exactly. Sherlock used to slide into bed with John, leeching off of his body heat. Sherlock used to mutter deductions in his sleep. Sherlock used to snuffle quietly against John's chest. Sherlock used to burrito himself up at night, unconsciously stealing the blankets. Sherlock used to dig his fingers into John's night shirts.

Harry did none of that. He barely washed his hair, let alone groom it, so this beautiful curls soon became a snarled bird's nest that stuck up in every direction. He haphazardly scrubbed his teeth for only a few moments before spitting and rinsing. They never shared a bed, and Harry made no sounds at all as he slept, staying entirely still all though the night.

As September turned to October, and the leaves turned from green to browns and reds, John couldn't help but remember those years when Sherlock had left him, left him alone, bitterly remembering Sherlock's promise to never leave him again. John left his curtain's open a crack, so he could see Harry, who lay in his own bed with curtains only half closed.

******1047******

"JOHN! MYCROFT! GREG! SEVERUS! JOHN! JOHN!" Sherlock hadn't stopped screaming for what felt like years. He had no idea where he was, or at what point he'd been brought here. The last thing he remembered was being on the train to Hogwarts. Or was it the feast? Maybe he'd dreamed that. Had he been kidnapped? Oh, Merlin, was John okay? John had surely been with him!

Sherlock threw his entire weight against the door of the small room he was in. And by small room, it was more a closet with the heavy wooden door shut tight. There was no door handle, and he could only tell it was a door by the faint light coming from the crack at the bottom of it. Other than that tiny glow, it was completely dark. Sherlock estimated the size of the room to be one point 3 square feet. He could barely move. If he tried sitting down, it was even more cramped, and for once Sherlock was grateful for how small he was.

"John!" Sherlock sobbed, laying his head against the door. His magic wasn't working, his brain felt fuzzy, and he felt horrible lonely like he hadn't since Mycroft had abandoned him to go to college, or when he was forced to leave John to take down Moriarty's web. His head hurt. His throat hurt from screaming. His eyes hurt from crying. His shoulder's ached where he'd hit the door. His chest felt uncomfortably clenched. How long had it been? Longer than a day, longer than a week surely. A month? A year? Had any time passed at all? Why had John not come for him? "Mycroft. John. John. John. John."


	28. Like Snow

**LOL sorry not sorry about that cliff hanger. I hadn't really meant for that last chapter to come out as angsty as it did, I just meant to add a bit a mystery but, oh well. I know in the AN I typically correct any misunderstandings that you guys voiced in the comments, but I think I'll just say most of you were wrong and leave it at that XD**

 **Hope you guys like this chapter**

 **~James**

A strange fog seemed to have fallen over the entire castle. A fog that only seemed to affect the younger three years, a select few upperclassmen, and a handful of the professors. The rest of the castle's occupants were blissfully unaware of the uncomfortable tension that would dominate classrooms when a certain Gryffindor would sneer at the professor, or shrug non-committally at a question. Or the uncertain gazes that lingered on Sherlock as he heartily scarfed down every meal.

It was like they were tip-toeing on glass, afraid of doing anything that would push their friend even further, into becoming a stranger. Gremione tended to boss him around a bit more than usual, trying to urge him to take more care in his studies, or to not goof off in the halls. John stuck by his side, but at the stiff distance of six inches at all times.

Mycroft was barely able to even see Sherlock anymore. Every time the blonde Slytherin came into view, Sherlock leveled a hateful glare so intense that it made nearby ghosts shiver. Ginny was the only Slytherin that Sherlock—that _Harry_ tolerated. He seemed to not even consider her a real Slytherin at all. He often sought her out, pulling her away from her Slytherin year mates with a disdainful glower, then cheerfully dragging her over to where a cluster of Gryffindors stood watching in confusion or sad resignation. Ginny's face would always light up red, but by the time late October had brought Halloween week, she was comfortable enough around him to simply invite herself to the Gryffindor table at lunch.

"Hey, Harry!" she said brightly, leaning into his side. Harry beamed at her as he loaded up his plate. "I can't wait for the feast tonight, hopefully nothing like last year will happen." She made a face, noting with a smidge of ugly, prideful vengeance that John's face briefly twisted in pain. She leaned further against him, prompting the older child to wrap an arm around her, squeezing her shoulders before dropping his arm back down to enjoy his lunch.

"I dunno," Harry said with a grin. "Fighting a troll was pretty exciting," which prompted Ginny to bat her eyelashes and beg him to tell her ( _again_ ) the story of how he single-handedly saved Ron and Hermione from the giant troll. Harry did, with great exaggeration, not noticing the slightly hurt and angry looks on the faces around him.

*****1047*****

 _It's so fantastic, Tom! I really think Harry's starting to like me! I haven't seen him and Ron cuddled up once since we got here, but he HUGGED me at lunch today! Oh, Tom, I'm just so happy!  
_ _ **It's a bit odd, don't you think? Not that I'm not happy for you, Gin! Truly, you're a lucky girl to catch the eye of**_ **the** ** _Harry Potter…but he seems to be acting…a little off…I don't know. I just have a feeling. Are you sure he's well?_**

 _What are you saying Tom? I didn't use any potions on him, if that's what you're implying! I would never! I want him to love me for me!  
_ _ **Like he loves your brother? Please don't be angry, Ginny. I'm not accusing**_ **you** ** _I would_** ** _never_** ** _…but…_**

 _But what, Tom?  
_ _ **What if someone else,**_ **did** ** _. An enemy of your brother, perhaps?_**

 _Do you really think I'm that unlovable, Tom?  
_ _ **No! Oh, no, Gin! Not at all! After all, if I were alive**_ **I** ** _would love you very much. But it's not his attentions towards you, it's how you're describing his other actions. It's almost as though you're writing about a completely different person._**

 _Maybe he just…grew up? That's what Mum thinks. She told me little boys often go through funny phases, but then they settle down when they meat the right girl._

 ** _Meet._**

 _What?  
_ _ **You said when they…nevermind. It's not important. But I suppose you're mother would know more about little boys than I do. She raised several…I just was one, once.**_

 _I'm so glad you agree with me, Tom!_

Tom was feeling somewhat…concerned for his supposed conqueror: the Boy Who Lived. Something felt off, but obviously there was nothing Tom could do about it but wait it out until…his whole being seemed to shudder with pleasure as a sweep of magic brushed over him. Realization dawned. Noon…it was Halloween. The connection of the earth's magic to it's creatures was just beginning to strengthen, and would continue to do so until Midnight.

If Tom had a smile, he would have grinned. He just needed a bit more power from Ginny, and then he could finally begin the plan he'd devised so very long ago. And, maybe, get his body back in the bargain. He turned his attention back to Ginny, he needed to make her emotional.

… _and there was talk about Neville hosting another Yule Ball. Oh, Tom, do you think Harry would take me if I asked him? Or should I wait for him to ask me. But then what if he_ doesn't _ask me, and he asks someone else. What if Ronald asks him first!_

 ** _Perhaps you should just ask him if he's in love with you?_**

 _I should?_

 ** _Definitely. But be careful. If you do it wrong and he_** **doesn't** ** _love you, then you could very well make him hate you._**

 _What?!_

 ** _Or just not want to be friends with you. At the very least. Maybe you should ask your brother for tips on what Harry likes, I'm sure he knows plenty._**

 _No! Tom that's a horrible idea!_

 ** _It is? Why? And what would you wear to the dance? Is it very formal? Like ball gowns?_**

 _! I don't know what to wear! Tom, help me!  
_ _ **How? I'm a book.**_

 **********1047*****

John couldn't help but glare at his sister from across the Hogwart's lawn. He had no idea what she was doing, as she strode purposefully across the grass, away from the castle, and honestly, he didn't care. Who did she think she was? She _knew_ that he cared about Sherlock! His whole family did! Even Percy was appalled at how she was acting, and he usually stayed out of John and Sherlock's affairs for the most part.

He and Sherlock—he and _Harry_ —were walking towards Charms, their last class for the day, from the Greenhouses. Feeling petulant and a touch peevish, John pretended to stumble, letting out a tiny gasp of pain. Harry's face was suddenly filled with concern as he spun to try and help his friend up. John felt slightly guilty for not feeling guilty. "Are you alright, mate?" Harry asked, gently. John forced himself to not grit his teeth, hating that Sherlock—that _Harry_ had started treating him like he was several years younger than he was. But all the same, the attention felt…soothing.

"I lost my footing," John said, pretending to stumble slightly as he got up. He placed a hand on Harry's wrist. "Sorry" he said quietly. Harry shook his head.

"Don't be, it's fine! I was probably walking too fast." Harry smiled indulgently at John, and said nothing when the slightly taller boy adjusted his grip, so that their fingers were tangled together. John felt lighter than he had in weeks when Harry allowed the contact, even when they had stepped into the stone corridor.

******1047******

Severus rubbed at his burning eyes, which stung from the fumes of the potion he'd been glaring at. It was the strongest revealing potion ever invented, and it was taking far too long to thicken. Nevertheless, the Potion's Master stood diligently above it, an uncorked vial with a few drops of stolen blood poised at the ready a few inches above the simmering cauldron.

Eventually, the slate grey or the potion softened to a cloudy off-white. Gently, Severus tilted his wrist, allowing a single drop of blood to splash into the center, the red contrasting almost prettily against the white. Tendrils of red snaked out, reaching like fingers. It took the better part of five minutes for the red to completely cover the white. Red, regular red.

Severus slumped, sitting down heavily in a nearby chair. That was it, he was out of ideas. And Poppy's friend couldn't do much without seeing the boy herself, which was not possible while the child was in school. A hissing noise startled Severus, making him look up sharply. He stood up so fast the chair toppled backwards, landing legs up.

The potion was no longer red. It was, once again, white. Severus frowned. That wasn't supposed to happen. If the blood was tainted with potion, then it should have turned green. If it was cursed, then yellow. If sick, then purple. Severus picked up the potion's recipe and scanned through it. There was nothing annotated concerning the potion turning white. And not even the off-white that it was originally. It was pure white, almost shimmering. Like snow.

*****1047******

Harry wasn't stupid. He knew that something was bothering his friends, and it was only logical to assume that _he_ was the one causing their discomfort, based on the longing/hurt/angry/sad/confused looks they were constantly giving him. The thing was, he had _no_ idea what he was doing wrong. It made him feel guilty, so guilty that it hurt. He didn't realize how bad it was getting until Ron stumbled on the way back to the castle from Herbology.

Harry panicked. Was Ron's limp coming back? What had cured it last time? Harry thought hard the entire walk to Charms, but for the life of him, he couldn't remember, only that he had something to do with it. The guilt gnawing at him intensified, and he squeezed John's hand, which was still clasped in his, a little harder.

Ron down up at him, surprised, then smiled widely. Harry felt like a heel. He paused outside the Charms classroom. They were a few minutes early yet, the Ravenclaws were already in there, seated, and most of the Gryffindors were probably half way across the castle, rushing to get here in time. They were alone in the hallway. Standing on his toes, Harry embraced his friend, wrapping his arms around Ron's neck.

"You sure you're okay?" Harry asked. To his horror, Ron sniffled.

"Yeah," he said, his voice sounding slightly strangled. "I'm fine, Sh-Harry, really."

Harry let go of him. "You can call me Sherlock if you want to," Harry said. It really was silly, getting so upset over a nickname that Harry vaguely remembered previously adoring. He'd only been angry from Snape's detention at the time, he hadn't meant to snap at his friend. However, instead of smiling like Harry had expected him to, Ron seemed to wince.

"N-no," Ron shook his head, rather decisively. "I'd much rather call you H-Harry," he said. Then he tagged on a smile, though even Harry could tell it was weak.

But he didn't push it. "Alright," Harry hesitated a moment, then picked Ron's hand back up. Together, they walked into the classroom. He ignored the way Flitwick smiled and squeaked when he saw them holding hands, instead stoically finding seat for him and Ron. Though once he was sitting down, he fidgeted, feeling the weird smiles from across the room almost stabbing into his skin.

Honestly, the whole castle had gone completely nutters.

*****1047*****

The Great Hall was filled with chatter, laughter, and amazing food. Harry caught Ginny's eyes from across the sea of students, and raised his goblet of pumpkin juice to her in a cheerful, mock toast. He felt strangely pleased and warmed when she blushed and returned it. Ron was silent at his side, picking at a candy apple. Harry wanted to ask him what was wrong, but he'd already done that, and Ron had replied that he was fine. Wanting to respect his friend's space, Harry had accepted it and tried to start a conversation with Neville.

That failing, Neville seemed strangely afraid to talk to him, Harry turned to Hermione. "I heard there was talk about you making reserve Chaser!" he said encouragingly. Quidditch try-outs had been earlier that week. Hermione smiled at him.

"It's true," she said, puffing up with pride. "Of course, I'll only play if, Merlin forbid, one of the actual players gets injured or is otherwise unable to play, but practice is still tons of fun! You should have tried out, Sh-Harry!"

Harry shook his head. "It's bad enough watching you and Ron fly about up there. I couldn't handle doing it myself. Very much content with keeping both my feet on the ground, thank you." Hermione laughed a bit, then veered to topic onto Hagrid and what would happen if he were given permission to open a zoo. It was lighthearted conversation that made the time pass easily. A couple times during the feast, Harry glanced up, trying to spot Ginny again, but each time he failed to find her pretty face amongst the other students. Something niggled at the back of Harry's brain, but in the end, he pushed it aside and simply enjoyed the company of his dormmates. All too soon, Dumbledore was standing up to give a Halloween blessing, then sending the children off to their beds.

Ron slipped his arm through Harry's as they pushed their way through the throng of students headed towards the Gryffindor Commons. Harry gave him a fond smile, hiding his concern, thinking that Ron was probably afraid of tripping on his bad leg and being trampled to death, or knocked down a moving staircase. The thought of it made Harry feel slightly nauseous. So, when he wrapped an arm around Ron's waist, then used his other hand to grasp one of Ron's, well it was purely for the benefit of their mutual health.

Ron pressed in closer to him, Harry looked down confused. But then he realized that the crowd was getting thicker. Like the people at the front had stopped moving. There was a scream. Then several more. Harry's grip tightened on Ron, and felt it returned.

"Out of the way! Move please! Prefect, coming through!" Percy's familiar voice rose above the clamoring voices. Harry moved quickly, dragging Ron along with him, staying close behind Percy as the prefect waded through the crowd. They followed him until the crowd ended, the students at the front of it all staring at a couple of Fourth Year Hufflepuffs Harry didn't recognize and one pale-faced Cedric Diggory. Beyond them was Flich's cat, hanging eerily still by her tail from a torch post.

"THE CHAMBER OF SECRETS HAS BEEN OPENED, ENEMIES OF THE HEIR…BEWARE" was written above the still feline in…what looked like blood. A voice read the grisly epitaph aloud. Harry turned his head, recognizing the boy as Zabini, one of Malfoy's cronies. Then, Harry noticed Malfoy looking at him in…fear?

It took but a few moments for the professors to arrive on the scene. Mrs. Norris was taken down from the torch post b a sobbing Argus, and then the three Hufflepuffs who first found the dead cat were escorted down the hall to Lockhart's office by Dumbledore with Sprout, Severus, Filch and Lockhart in tow.

Then the prefects sprung into action, herding their respective houses back to the dorms, trying to quiet down the sudden roar of noise as the students began demanded what the heck had happened. By the time the entirety of Gryffindor was safe up in their tower, it was nearly one in the morning.

******1047*****

Aeldin stood hunched over with his hands on his knees, breathing heavily. He'd done it. He'd finally done it. The door that had held him prisoner for so long was in splinters, blown away by the sheer force of his magic and will. Aeldin smiled fiercely, then it faltered. How long had it been since Sherlock had visited?

Wondering if there was any way he could see what was happening on the "outside", Aeldin tentatively pushed his way through the ruined doorway, gingerly avoiding the sharp, mangled edges that used to be the door. Then he paused. He was in what appeared to be…a palace. There was a graceful swooping ceiling overhead, held up with elaborate Greek Columns. The design on the plaster was intricate yet elegant. Windows twenty meters tall let in sunshine, which pooled on the marble floors in patterns and rainbows. It would have been beautiful…if it didn't look like it had been ransacked by the Huns.

Bookshelves had been toppled over, books—memories, Aeldin assumed—were scattered about and some even ripped to shreds. A few of the columns appeared to be charred, others were crumbing. Several windows were shattered, the glass floating about in the air, as though unaffected by gravity. There were holes in the walls that almost looked like they were caused by cannon fire. Pieces of the floor and chunks of the ceiling were missing. Display cases stood open, broken and empty.

Something uncomfortable churned in Aeldin's gut. Where was Sherlock? Aeldin stepped forward, his foot splashing down in…water? No, not water. Aeldin remembered enough from when he had his own body, when he'd used Occlumency to organize his own mind to look like the Slytherin Commons…this was magic…but…Aeldin's magic had been like light. Like energy pulsing through his mind in steady streams and beams. Compared to that, Sherlock's seemed…. pathetic. Languid almost. But that couldn't possibly be true. Aeldin knew first hand how powerful Sherlock was.

Sherlock's magic trickled across the floor in a weak facsimile of a brook. With no other ideas, Aeldin followed along its edge. The magic webbed out across the entirety of the palace not really leading anywhere, and throughout the palace, the same sad dilapidation was present.

What the heck was wrong with Sherlock?

***1047****

Cedric felt sick to his stomach as he watched Professor Lockhart poke and prod the corpse of poor Filch's cat. The squib was inconsolable, sobbing loudly and wetly into his hands. Cedric rubbed Addie and Jahong's backs, trying to comfort the younger Puffs who both looked equally ready to pass out and vomit.

"She isn't dead, Argus," a gentle voice interrupted Professor Lockhart's rant about how painful a death the cat must have had. Cedric inspected the Headmaster curiously, then he looked back at Mrs. Norris, who, quite frankly, looked rather dead. "She's been petrified."

Ah. That made sense.

Kinda.

Cedric felt genuine relief as Dumbledore explained that the cat's condition was curable, with a potion what was relatively easy to make once the mandrakes in the greenhouses were fully matured. He may have never been fond of Mrs. Norris, but no creature deserved her fate, no matter how wretched they were. And even then, Mrs. Norris was just doing what her owner had trained her to do, the poor kitty was just doing her job.

"Excellent!" Lockhart said, clapping his hands together. "I'll get started on that potion at once, you know it takes several moon cycles for the preliminary potion to prepare…"

"Rubbish," Severus snorted. "You obviously have no idea what you're talking about. Therefore it's my reluctant duty to take responsibility for the brewing of said potion." Cedric felt the strange urge to ask the Potion's Master what was wrong. This was a feeling not uncommonly expressed in the Hufflepuff dorms as of late. Everyone could tell something was off with him. He simply wasn't himself. It was very likely that his distress came from Sherlock Potter's oddness as of late. Cedric didn't know the young Gryffindor that well and even _he_ was unsettled by the strangeness. A common rumor was that Severus was actually Sherlock's biological father, which would account for several of Sherlock's personality quirks, and that Sherlock was conceived after it was discovered that James Potter was unable to sire children. As much as Cedric hated to indulge in idle gossip, it seemed that it was becoming more and more believable as he watched Professor Snape become more and more withdrawn.

"Mr. Diggory," Dumbledore snapped him out of his musings. "Can you please explain just what you were doing in that hall whilst everyone else was enjoying the feast?"

"You might had heard, sir," Cedric said respectfully "that our chaser, Jase Cadwallader, took a nasty fall this morning off his broom. He's up in the infirmary regrowing the skin on his left arm and both shins. We wanted to take him up some treats," to prove his story, Cedric pulled a shrunken bundle of goods from out of his uniform pocket.

"Very well," Dumbledore smiled at him before turning to Jahong and Addie "And you two were on your way with him?" The both of them nodded frantically.

"They're lying!" Filch howled. Cedric felt a bit affronted at that. It was against everything Hufflepuff stood for to lie about such a thing. "I want to see some punishment!" Out of the corner of his eyes, Cedric saw Jahong's face pale.

"If you must, punish me," Cedric said. "I practically dragged Jahong and Addie along. I admit I find the upper part of the castle a bit creepy at night."

"So you admit to it!" Filch cried in triumph.

"I admit to leaving the feast early, and I admit to coercing Jahong and Addie into joining me, but I promise you that I didn't harm Mrs. Norris. We found her like that."

"Lies!"  
"Oh, do be quiet, Argus!" snapped Snape. "They're Hufflepuffs! Their tender little virgin hearts don't have the capacity to perform Dark Magic, much less animal abuse." Cedric might have felt affronted if he hadn't been too busy agreeing whole-heartedly. "Send them off to bed, Albus. It's clear they don't know anything."

Albus chuckled a bit. "Very well. Mr. Diggory, why don't you finish up checking on young Mr. Cadwallader, then escort yourself and your friends back down to your dorm." Cedric thanked the headmaster and awkwardly bowed before all but fleeing the room.

*****1047******

" _Kill…must find…must kill, rip, tear…blood…where are you? Sent to kill…must find…must feed. So hungry…need….kill…feed, swallow whole…"_ Harry woke up with a start, feeling tense and anxious. He sat up, grimacing at the sticky feeling of dried sweat on his back and arms, as well as the inside of his legs, making his nightclothes stick to him uncomfortably. He breathed in deeply.

Slowly, he reached out and grabbed the curtain that hung around his bed, and he pulled it open a fraction, until he could see the bed across from him, illuminated by the moon. At the sight of Ron, nestled up in his sheets, the tightness in his chest loosened, and he breath came easier. Harry laid back down, facing his friend.

" _Must…find…master…obey…kill….destroy_ " Harry shot back up. Without hesitation, he leaped out of his bed and clambered into Ron's. Surprisingly, the blonde Gryffindor didn't wake up, allowing Harry to get comfortable next to him in the warm bed without having to try to explain himself.

" _Oh, don't worry Ron. Nothing's wrong, I'm just hearing voices that want to kill me."_

******1047*****

Sherlock sat curled up in the corner.

"John?"

" _Jooohn…_ "

"JOHN!"

"…Mycroft?..."


	29. Best Thing that I've Got

**The Best Thing I've Got**

 **Hey guys! Sorry it's literally been FOREVER! I'm not dead, I'm just a college student now. LOL, though if classes stay as boring as they are right now, I might die in the near future. Ugh. I'm really going to try hard to start working on Fanfiction again. Thank you all for keeping with my story! I know you guys are getting tired of Not-Sherlock-Harry, so I'm going to skip writing most of what I had planned for second year and just forge on ahead.**

 **Also, please bear with me. Sherlock doesn't stay "Harry" for much longer, and I promise it was a needed part of the plot. Hope you enjoy! Please Review and let me know people are still reading this! and THANK YOU!**

 **May the gods be ever in your favor**

 **James**

Dumbledore was starting to get concerned. It seemed the harder he tried to reign in his unruly Gryffindor, the harder it got to predict him. True, now Harry Potter was acting much like one James Potter, but only the most negative traits. He was rude, crass and honestly far worse at school than his father ever was. Not to mention he didn't have the automatic popularity boost that came with being on the Quidditch team. Albus had thought Harry might seek to join the team this year, but the boy hadn't even tried.

Albus had no idea how his plan had gone so far off base. He had originally only wanted Molly to feed Harry just enough love potion to distract him with Ginny, because, since Albus had it on good authority that young Harry was thoroughly enamored with the Malfoy Heir, he didn't want Harry Potter to become drunk on love once he discovered he and his crush were betrothed, therefore making it easier for the Malfoy's to manipulate him. The bottle he gave Molly contained only a potion with weak but long lasting side effects. Of course, normally this specific potion wouldn't work on Mr. Potter at all, considering his rather large magical core. And so, Albus had thought up the second part of his plan.

Binding part of Harry's magic. Just enough to knock the boy off his high horse, as well as allow the love potion to take effect. The Potter Heir was entirely too cocky and sure of himself, because of his extreme magical prowess, Albus needed Harry to depend on him more. And so, Albus, through a series of tricky rituals, managed to procure the help of a goblin to to the job for him. He had timed it to be done when both he and Mr. Potter were in a public area—the opening feast—so that suspicion wouldn't fall on him. It was simple, really, it was a process that only required a portion of the subject's blood, which Albus had on hand thanks to Hogwarts' standard procedure of collecting a blood sample from every non-pureblood child, in case they were kidnapped or lost, as most efficient tracking spells are light blood magic.

It was an easy matter of taking Mr. Potter's blood vial from the vault, and replacing it with pig blood, then delivering it safely to the Goblin in his….employ. Albus had thought long and hard about his plan before ever putting it into action, and all that should have happened was Harry feeling faint at the feast, and waking up the next day to find his power diminished, and perhaps Miss Weasley a tad more enticing. But that's not what happened at all!

What in the world could have gone wrong?

******1047********

Lockhart was fuming inwardly as he took in the defiant face in front of him. Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived, was refusing to allow Lockhart to take a lock of his hair, not believing that he, Gilderoy Lockhart, Order of Merlin, Third Class; Honorary Member of the Dark Force Defense League; and five-time winner of Witch Weekly's Most Charming Smile was only trying to help him be rid of the Deku Fungus that was _obviously_ inhabiting his head.

The dark scowl on the boy's face made Lockhart take a couple steps back, wondering how his plan had gone all wrong. Lockhart wasn't stupid, he was an intelligent man with a beautiful mind. It had been a fairly simple plan too: win over the Boy Who Lived by offering to be his mentor, show him the ropes of being famous, allow him to read his many, many fan letters, give him special insight into his books and special attention in class. But in order to win him over, Lockhart knew he had to Obliviate the whole _fiasco_ of what happened in Florish in Blotts from the boy's memory.

He got a clear shot during the opening feast, and, by jove, he took it! And Lockhart knew he was successful, he had quite the knack for memory charms. The thing is, the boy STILL seemed to be irked with him. Heaven knows why!

*******1047******

Blaise Zabini was wracked with guilt as he watched Sherlock and John walk down the hall. It was pathetic, really. Sherlock's face, the open—almost bland—expression on his face as he talked to John, and the love-sick adoration on the tiny blonde Weasley made his stomach turn. Just the day before, at the Slytherin/Gryffindor Quidditch match, Sherlock had been bad mouthing every Slytherin he came into contact with, including his own brother, Mycroft, who had only wanted to announce that he was Slytherin's new Seeker, and to with John a friendly game. Only Blaise had seen Mycroft wipe his eyes dry as he baby brother turned on his heel and stormed away.

John had been hit by a rogue bludger during the game and taken a nasty tumble. He'd originally only sprained his wrist, but then bloody Lockhart had stepped in and removed the bones from John's entire arm, making it necessary for John to spend the night in the Infirmary. Obviously, sometime during the night, Sherlock had snuck up to visit him.

Blaise hesitated at a corner, peering, trembling, around it at the door to his Head of House's office. His heart was thundering. Would he be expelled for what he did? Oh, Merlin, he deserved to be expelled! No, he deserved to go to Askaban for what he did to sweet little Sherlock, his best mates' baby brother. Dear Morgana's saggy tits, if Mycroft found out…Blaise gulped down some desperately needed air, not realizing he'd been holding his breath. The resulting noise sounded uncomfortably like a sob.

Everyone suspected that Sherlock was behind Ms. Norris' attack, and was hoping to frame a Slytherin for it. But, Blaise had hoped it wouldn't go any further than that infernal cat. But it had, last night, Colin Creevy was found in the same state: petrified. It was _obvious_ that Sherlock had something to do with it, even Mycroft suspected though he was so busy going through every book in the library with Gremione on mind-altering and personality changes that he barely spared a glance at the news.

Creevy was the only one outside of the Weasley's and Sherlock that John ever cuddled, and John _often_ hugged the smaller Gryffindor. Lately, Creevy had been getting on Sherlock's nerves more and more, until Sherlock snapped at him yesterday, which resulted in John yelling at him in Creevy's defense. And this morning, Creevy was found stiff as a board.

The thing is, Blaise had only meant what he'd done as a simple prank, nothing more. He had no idea how it as escalated like this. Gathering up all his courage, Blaise slowly crept towards the Potion Master's office, raised a shaking fist and hastily knocked twice on the door, before he lost his nerve and backed away several paces, not able to shift his gaze from off the floor.

The door was open in an instant. "Mr. Zabini," drawled the tired voice of Blaise's favorite professor. Blaise finally lifted his eyes, and took in the drawn, paler-than-normal pallor, the deep bags under blood shot eyes, the stooped posture and the rumpled robes. Again, Blaise wondered about the rumor that Snape was actually Sherlock's father. The thought caused all of the guilt and stress Blaise had been holding in to explode out of him, and suddenly, Blaise Zabini, the cool calm and collected Slytherin was on his knees, weeping.

Snape dropped down beside him, hands gripping the boy's forearms, forcing Blaise to look up at him. "What is it?" he asked, sharply but not unkindly. "What's wrong?"

"I-I-I'm s-s-sorry, Ppproffessor," Blaise blubbered out. "All m-my f-f-fault!" Looking about the empty hall, checking that they were alone, Snape lifted the boy up and half led, half carried him into his office, gently setting him down in a chair. Then, he sped over to his potion's cabinet and retrieved a calming draught for the still crying second year. Snape popped off the lid and with an ease that came with regularly forcing potions down an unwilling throat ( _Sherlock¸_ came the unbidden pain of reminder) Severus poured the contents into Blaise's mouth and pressed against the side of his throat, forcing him to swallow.

"Now," Severus said, kneeling in front of Zabini. "Tell me what has you in this state."

"I'm so sorry—"

"I didn't ask you if you were sorry," Severus said, feeling tired and simply wanting to know what was wrong with the boy. "Answer me!"

The harsh tone compelled Blaise to say "I gave Sherlock a potion." Severus froze. For several moments, neither Professor nor child said or did anything.

"When."

"During the welcome feast," Blaise wiped his eyes, "I had my House Elf teleport the contents into his pumpkin juice."

"What potion"

"T-the Lagraocion."

Severus paused. "And who did you procure this from?"

"I-I made it…" Severus frowned. The Lagraocion was notoriously difficult to make, though a student of Mr. Zabini's caliber may have been able to pull it off. It was a love potion, that was so powerful it wasn't even classified as a love potion but rather a mind-altering one. The only problem is, is that its effects are incredibly short lived. Five minutes at the most. Severus frowned, though it made sense as it wouldn't show up on any tests that they'd done as the potion didn't target the victim's actual mind or body but rather…

"Magical core" Severus spat, standing upright in a jolt, making the distraught boy flinch. Turning his attention back to Blaise he asked "What on earth possessed you to do such a thing?" his question caused the second year to burst into tears again, though not as violent as before, so Blaise was still capable of answering.

"I-I only meant it as a joke! Please, believe me professor! Mycroft's my best friend, I'd never do _anything_ to hurt his baby brother! I had p-potions in my trunk that I'd made over the summer for p-p-practice with my Mum. I thought that the potion only lasted a little while. I thought it'd be funny to see John's face when Sherlock started mooning over his sister, but it was only supposed to be temporary! I don't know what went wrong!"

Severus massaged his temples. There were several things that could have gone wrong. "You could have made a faulty potion, for one," he hissed. "Sherlock could be having a severe allergic reaction, for another. It may have had adverse reaction to the _medicinal potions_ I've been having him ingest!" Blaise was weeping again. Severus forced himself to calm down.

"You should have come to me sooner," Severus said, marginally softer. "But at least now, I have something to go on."

****1047****

John sat glumly beside his son's bedside in the Mediwing. Madam Pomfrey was bustling about, though John knew from experience as a doctor that she was only trying to look busy and actually had no way to further help Colin. Colin sat there, eyes staring wide open, hands held above his face still in the position of taking a picture. His eyebrows were raised high, and his mouth was slightly open. Colin was wearing an expression of fear. John tenderly brushed his fingers through Colin's hair, the only part of the child that wasn't completely frozen stiff.

"Here again?" came Sherlock—Harry's voice. John clenched his fists. Ever since they got off the train at the beginning of the year, Harry had treated Colin like an annoying stranger. John forced his fingers to relax, but inwardly he felt raw. Like his very soul had been scrubbed bloody with steel wool. First _Harry_ started acting like…not Sherlock, then his own sister started acting like she hated him, and now his poor son…

"Yes" John said shortly, not trusting himself to say anymore. "He's" John hesitated. "He's important to me." Harry looked as though he wanted to mock him for this, but at the last second seemed to change his mind, instead placing a hand on John's shoulder. Despite everything, John found himself leaning into the touch. Merlin, he was pathetic.

"I've heard from Dean that Dumbledore ordered Snape to look for a cure," Harry said in what he probably thought was a comforting tone, but fell more within the category of pompous. "And I saw the old Bat head down to the village early this morning. As much as I hate to say it, Snape is probably Creevy's best bet. He'll be fine, Ron."

John nodded stiffly, then tensed as Harry's fingers bushed over his ear. The smaller boy was still, then he inhaled sharply, taking a hasty step back. With a muttered excuse, Harry left Colin and John without a backwards glance. John stared after him for a long moment, before turning back to his son.

" _I wish you could have seen us, before,_ " John thought to Colin, placing a hand on his unnaturally stiff stomach, idly brushing his thumb back and forth. " _I wish I'd known about you, before._ " John could just imagine it. He wouldn't have gotten back with Mary, at least, he hoped not. He honestly didn't know for sure and he hated that. John wished he could say to himself with absolute certainty that, even back then, he wouldn't have stayed with the monster that had harmed his very best friend. But if he had known about Mary being pregnant, he would have demanded to be a part of the child's life.

Maybe they would have switched back and forth every week, he and Mary. Colin at Baker Street one week and with his mother the next. It wouldn't have been perfect, but it would have been close to. John could see it, in his minds eye, Sherlock holding a baby Colin, explaining to the babbling, drooling thing all about the experiments and cases he was working on. The baby playing with the skull they always had on the mantel place. Mrs. Hudson cooing over the three of them whenever they had a sit down, family night in front of the telly.

John sniffled, bushing away tears from his eyes and nose with his sweater sleeve. "He'll be alright, deary," Madam Pomfrey told him, suddenly appearing from behind, making John jump a little. "Once we get the cure in him, it'll be just like he's waking up. He won't remember being frozen." John nodded, dully, then rose to his feet.

"Thank you," he said softly. He cast one last, longing glance at his son, then left to go find where Sherlock had gone off to.

*******1047**********

Mycroft hadn't slept in two days, and even then it had only been for a few, restless hours. The runes on his shoulder itched, burned, felt icy cold and charged with energy all at once. It meant that the older participant of the bond, his brother, was in trouble. Mycroft rubbed at his shoulder, furiously blinking away tears and sleep from his eyes. He opened yet another tome, this one about remote possession and empathetic control. The words danced around on the page, he couldn't focus. The lines garbled together and when he tried stinging the words together, he might as well have been reading a text written in ancient Sumerian backwards while drunk.

Mycroft felt very small. He felt very stupid. He felt very lonely. He looked up from where he was sitting cross-legged on his bed, and caught his own reflection in the mirror across his dorm. In it, he saw a frightened tiny boy with a pale flushed face, red eyes with deep bags, greasy mussed hair and dried tears on his cheeks.

He started to cry. He was silent, and still. But tears poured freely down his bowed face, dripping onto his book and blankets. Theodore Nott, who had been studying in his own bed, looked at him with pity for a moment, then rose and absconded the room. Not three minutes later, his godfather swept into the room and scooped him up at once, squeezing him tightly. Draco went limp, unable to do anything else.

"You will cease this nonsense," Severus said briskly, never mind the fact that the sullen faced Potioneer was soothingly rocking the child to and fro, rubbing his back affectionately. "I'll fix this," he whispered into his godson's hair, feeling relief as Draco slowly calmed, his breath evening out. Pausing, he cast a mild diagnostic charm. Severus sighed, wanting to feel irritation but not really able to work up the effort needed; the brat had fallen asleep. Severus sat down on the nearest bed heavily, still holding Draco in his arms. He really didn't get paid enough for this.

*****1047******

Aeldin winced as he dodged a piece of falling debris. It clattered down from the ceiling, shattering into a thousand pieces when it crashing into the floor. He'd been following the flow of magic all day, and it had gotten him nowhere.

Well, that's not exactly true, it had certainly taken him on a long, twisting tour through Sherlock's mind palace. He'd seen rooms that, had they been whole, would have belonged in a medieval castle; rooms cozy, like they were taken straight from a cabin in a woods; rooms decorated lavishly in strange muggle technology; and even rooms that contained outdoor spaces, one with a vast smoldering desert, and one with frozen tundra.

And now, he was traveling through a broken, decrepit hall, the likes of which he had never seen yet in this grand, vast space that was Sherlock's mind. The walls had holes in them, as though eaten out by giant termites, pieces of plaster and dry wall littered the floor. Aeldin stepped over them.

And then the magic stopped. The stream had been growing steadily smaller, weaker, thinner. But now it was gone, not even the smallest drop went any further. Aeldin frowned. He might have simply turned around and gone back the way he'd come from, if he hadn't heard a muted, heartrending voice call out, softly. Whatever words that the voice had spoken were lost, but Aeldin could still hear the quiet tones on the barest edge of his hearing.

He stood at the edge of the magic, and closed his eyes. Slowly, he walked towards the wall to his left.

He shoved.

******1047*****

The days seemed to tumble by in a blur of sleep deprivation and disappointment. The only bright point, for John, came after Greg was petrified—as must as it made him feel like a monster for even thinking so. She was the fourth to be petrified after Justin the Hufflepuff Second year and Nearly Headless Nick. She'd been excited that day, running up to Harry, telling him that he had to follow her quickly. He'd told her off for it, telling her that he was busy and didn't feel like "playing with her".

She'd spun on her heel, offended, and stalked away. Four hours later, she was found petrified in the hallway near the girl's bathroom on the third floor. Harry had frozen when he heard the news, and instinctively reached for John.

After that, Harry sat closer to John, held his hand constantly, and at night he curled up right next to him. If John pretended, just a little, he could imagine that it was the way things were, again. Christmas was just around the corner, now. And Harry had agreed, much to Ginny's delight, to once again spend the break at the Burrow.

Maybe it was just the way John was interpreting things, but the holidays that year seemed to come with less pomp and circumstance than usual. Sure, they went to the alley and picked out presents (John had made Harry buy presents for all the people he had last year, saying that if he didn't it would be rude, though John had to subtly buy enough sweets for the Slytherin first years, and later spent his own money on Mycroft and Snape, sending Mycroft a snowglobe replica of the Burrow, and Snape a framed picture of Sherlock…Harry…making an adorably irritated face as he tried-and failed-mixing ingredients together for cookie dough.)

John was unreasonably happy when, once again, Harry ignored the extra bed and simply laid down in John's like he belonged there. Christmas morning dawned, and John found himself enveloped in the arms of his best friend. Despite being larger than Harry, John's head was pillowed on Harry's chest, his arms about the raven's waist.

John watched with painful, aching fondness as Harry stirred. His nose wrinkling and eyes scrunching up as he yawned. John wrinkled his own nose at Harry's morning breath, but felt amused anyway. John relaxed, and felt Harry hug him tighter. "Happy Christmas," Harry whispered, as though not wanting to spoil the peacefulness of the morning. John mumbled back a reply, rubbing his cheek against Harry. His friend laughed, and ran a hand over John's head, making his hair stand up.

The eventually got around to getting ready for the morning, and it was only when John was about to leave the room and head down to breakfast, that he noticed that someone-probably the twins- had strung up a pathetic looking piece of mistletoe over their doorway. John smiled at it. "What's up?" Harry asked him, walking up as he pulled his old Weasley sweater down over his head.

"That" John said, pointing up. Harry followed his finger, looking upwards. When he spied the sprig of leaves, tied with fraying twine, he grinned a little bit. Later, John would blame his actions on his inherited Gryffindorishness; but at that moment, his heart gave a lurch that made him capture Harry's lips with his own. Time stood still, and John's eyes slid closed.

His hands seemed to move of their own accord, one gently framing Harry's cheek, the other resting on the smaller boy's hip. At first, it was chaste. After all, in this life the two of them were only twelve. The kiss was just the simplest press of skin on skin, until John tilted his head, slotting their mouths closer together, pressing in deeper.

*****1047******

Harry laid in bed Christmas morning, thinking about his life. He kept his eyes closed, and lay very still, so that he wouldn't wake up Ron, who had snuggled up to him in his sleep. Harry couldn't help but smile a bit at his friend. Harry was considering maybe going to see Madame Pomfrey when he went back to school for one simple reason: he seemed to have an awful amount of gaps in his memory.

He couldn't remember what he'd done that summer, not clearly. Just the vague idea that he visited friends for the most of it, and that he'd felt very happy. His first year of Hogwarts was a blur, and that in of itself was a pain, because it would help him succeed in his second ear school work if he could remember what he had been taught a year ago.

He didn't remember meeting Ron. It was almost as though he'd always known his strange, but wonderful friend. But that was ridiculous, he'd only met Ron two years ago on the train at Kings Cross Station. Harry had a sneaking suspicion that someone had taken his memories purposefully, because nothing in his life made sense and his missing memories probably held most of the reason behind it. Why did Malfoy act as though they were estranged best friends? Why was Ron so protective of that Creevy kid? Why did everyone act as though he should be striving to make Snape proud?

Why did Harry care about keeping Ron happy? Keeping him safe? When Granger had been attacked by whatever the hack was stalking the halls of Hogwarts, Harry had only thought of what would happen if Ron were to be next. Horror had gripped him, and the slightest guilt about Granger had been completely over taken by fear that something would happen to Ron. But why Ron? Why didn't he worry so much over Neville, or Dean?

Ron cuddled closer, and Harry fondly rubbed his head. "Happy Christmas," he said. Ron smiled at him. Harry thought some more as he got dressed. When was the last time he'd been at Privet Drive? What had happened last Christmas? He'd been at the Burrow, right? Harry was pulling on his sweater when he realized that Ron had stopped moving, and had a strange, sad smile on his face. Slightly concerned, Harry asked him "What's up?"

Ron had looked him in the eyes, and there was something forlorn in the taller boy's face. But, still with a smile, Ron had pointed out a sprig of mistletoe strung up in the doorway. Harry looked up at it, and grinned. The twins must have put it up as a prank. After all, the entire Weasley family with the exception of Ginny was under the impression that—

Suddenly, Ron was kissing him.

Harry felt nothing but panic for several seconds, as Ron placed a soft, gentle hand on his cheek, his other hand pulling his waist forward. Harry's own hands were fisted in the front of Ron's sweater, not pulling…but not pushing away either. Harry's saw, eyes wide open, that Ron was crying though his eyes were closed. Two tears were trailing down from his left eye.

 _Oh_. Harry thought, a bit stupidly. He was about to push away from Ron, not to be mean but simply _because_ , then something stopped him. What would he say? Would they still be friends? The thought of not being best friends with Ron was unimaginable, unbearable, _agonizing_. Besides, the kiss wasn't that bad. It was…it was…it…

Ron deepened the kiss, and abruptly it was no longer just a firm pressure between their two closed mouths. Harry's own eyes fell closed.

 _ **Oh**_.

Ron's arms curled around him, drawing Harry in a tight embrace, not breaking their kiss. Harry wrapped his arms around Ron's neck. Wetness fell on Harry's cheeks. Both boys tightened their arms, Harry stepping just the smallest bit closer. _I love him_ , Harry thought, a bit dazed. And then he understood that they'd never be too old to cuddle in public and the realization made him feel inexplicably happy. He started to smile and it made kissing a bit harder, but Ron didn't seem to mind, he only hummed a swiped at Harry's mouth with his tongue. A thrill went through him, and his smile got bigger.

If this were a fairytale, Harry mused in the back of his mind, kissing Ron would bring his memories back. He was slightly disappointed that this wasn't true. However, maybe it was just his imagination, but it seemed as though his mind felt just the slightest bit clearer. The faint image of a mirror reflecting the two of them flickered across his mind.

*******1047*****

John felt strangely like he was cheating on Sherlock with Harry.

He'd gathered over the course of the school year, that Harry had absolutely no idea what he was talking about whenever he brought something up from their old life. Harry didn't understand any references to experiences or actions that were purely _Sherlock_ in nature. Harry didn't even _act_ anything like Sherlock. But then John would look at his face, hear his voice.

Kissing Harry was exactly like how he'd always imagined kissing Sherlock would be. He'd tensed up at first, but then _Merlin_ did he respond. He was clumsy, and eager. Unexperienced but that made the kiss so very sweet and innocent and beautiful and for the time being John felt the gaping hole that had been in his chest all semester just fill up with the love he had for Sherlock.

And then he remembered who he was kissing, and a sharp pain shot through him. He almost broke the kiss, when Harry's arms wrapped around his neck and pulled him closer. John thought he might have been crying just a little bit, but Harry didn't seem to mind.

Then Harry smiled into the kiss and John felt his stomach flip.

They parted reluctantly, Harry leaning up on his toes to press little butterfly kisses to John's lips as they went. His smile was so bright, his vivid eyes were gleaming. Tiny hands wiped away John's tears. "Please don't cry," Harry pleaded, "it's Christmas and we're together." John managed a smile, then a thought struck him.

"I-I thought you had a crush on Ginny"

Harry frowned. "What? Of course, I don't." He frowned deeper. "I don't?" he didn't sound so sure that time. Then his eyes cleared and he looked up "I love _you_ " John couldn't help kissing him again, just as deeply.

*******1047******

Arthur Weasley had been worried about Sherlock when he'd first seen him that year for Christmas. The boy seemed _off_ somehow. And then there was the way that he called Ron by his true name, which wasn't necessarily a problem, but it was still disconcerting. And, even though it was impossible, Sherlock just didn't seem as—well—as intelligent as before. On top of that, there was the frankly alarming fact that he seemed to be flirting with Ginny.

So, when Ron and Sherlock came down Christmas morning, hand in hand, beaming at each other like they were the only two in the world, Arthur relaxed just a bit. The festivities were as joyful as they were every year, Molly's cooking just as fantastic. Though, Arthur had to admit, his favorite part of the evening was when his two youngest boys discovered the mistletoe by the Christmas tree. Sherlock had hesitated a moment after seeing it, Ron not noticing it at all. Then, Sherlock and pulled Ron down by the sweater and kissed him….rather thoroughly for a twelve year old.

But, Arthur felt like everything was finally right in his world, even if it was just for Christmas. Though, he did spare a thought to wonder why Ginny was running up to her room so hurriedly.

*****1047*****

Tom had been lost in thought, knowing that Ginny probably wouldn't write him on Christmas, when he was interrupted by a sudden wave of magical energy and emotion. Tom tried to decipher it, so he could plan how to react. Anguished sadness, depression, resentment, anger, longing, the emotions were coming at Tom faster than he could grasp them.

 _Oh, Tom I just saw my brother and Harry kissing under the mistletoe and I thought he finally liked me why does Ron have to steal EVERYTHING from me? I wish he would just go away things were finally good for me for once!_

The little girl kept on her horribly punctuated ranting and Tom scanned her words blandly. He felt quite pleased that Sherlock seemed to be getting back to his usual self.

 _ **That's horrible, Ginny. Oh, you poor girl! What happened? Why is he suddenly acting like this?**_

 _I don't know! I wish I did, because then I might be able to fix it._

 _ **And I wish I knew what I could say that could possibly make you feel better. I'm so sorry, Ginny. A sweet girl like you doesn't deserve to lose the love of her life forever.**_

The wave of despair and anger that swept over Tom's soul was like a magic healing balm. His strength was returning quickly, thanks to Ginny. And Sherlock to a certain extent. If this kept up the way it was going, Tom might be able to be fully corporal by the time they got back to Hogwarts.

*****1047*****

Harry was pretty sure dating Ron was the best idea he'd ever had.

It didn't just make Ron happy, it made everyone happy. Whenever they walked into a classroom holding hands, the other people around them would invariably beam. When Harry snuck a peck on Ron's cheek during Potions, even sour old Snape seemed to soften a bit, something Harry had thought was impossible.

And Ron's kisses were _amazing_. It made Harry feel like he was _flying_. But better because Harry didn't actually like flying. They cuddled all the time, and Harry finally saw why Ron had been trying to do it all along. It was warm, and made him feel safe and sleepy. Bedtime was Harry's favorite now, because he could kiss and hold Ron privately and it made him feel strong. Like a dragon protecting their hoard with a content feeling of _mine._

Mornings were good, too, though. Because they always _always_ before they did anything else, kissed long and good. Most times, Ron would be above Harry, pressing him into their shared pillow, holding him down, and his kisses would be deep and firm. Then, Ron would pull away and Harry would say loudly, breathlessly "I love you".

And Ron would kiss him again, "I've loved you longer".


	30. Hope

**Hey guys! I know it's been a while, and so I'd like to offer an explanation and an apology. I was talked into attending a certain Bible College down in Florida, where they put so many blocks on the internet that everything from YouTube to Facebook Messenger isn't allowed. Therefore, I was unable to get onto FFN. Granted, I could have written offline, but the whole Bible College experience was soul crushing and it devoured my muses into a deep dark hole of religious rubbish and impractical standards. Furthermore, when I ran away from said college, I lost the thumb drive that had the next three chapters for this story written out…ugh….soul crushing…**

 **I'm back now, fingers crossed, I'll hopefully be better at updating.**

 **I love you ALL, especially those (76) people who left PMs, and the even greater number of people who left reviews. In fact, PLEASE keep sending me messages/reviews, because it's because of all of those people that I'm even writing right now at all.**

 **Also, I'd like to dedicate this chapter to wennifer-lynn. Thanks for the encouragement :)**

 **May the gods be ever in your favor,**

 **James**

Sherlock opened his eyes.

The previously dark, cramped space, which had been cold and oppressive, had grown inexplicably warmer so suddenly that it took a few moments for his occupied mind to process it. Cautiously, he looked up. A soft golden glow filtered down from an unreachable opening, through which nothing was visible except light. Sherlock was able to see his surroundings for the first time.

He wasn't in a closet.

Sherlock leapt to his feet, heart pounding as he took in his prison.

His _coffin_.

The wooden box stood upright. It was a simple construct, made of what appeared to be rough pine. Sherlock threw his weight against the side, hoping to topple it over. Nothing. Nothing except a sore shoulder that is. Once more, he rammed into the side of it, the howled in frustration. Either something was holding him up, or the coffin was stuck inside yet _another_ enclosure.

Sherlock pulled on his hair. Where was he? Quite some time had had to have passed by now. Surely, people would be looking for him by now? Severus _must_ be worried. Even Dumbledore, the despicable Santa clone, has to be wondering where he got to. After all, he'd been taken directly after the start of school. He'd already arrived at Hogwarts. Hadn't he? His memory was a fit fuzzy, which, in and of itself was concerning enough considering that Sherlock had an eidetic memory.

Sherlock inspected the light coming from above, and noted that there was nothing physically producing the light that now filled the inside of the small space. Nothing that he could see, anyway. It was almost as though there was simply a rectangle made of solid energy some two feet above his head, yet when he stretched his arms upward towards the light, he felt nothing.

Biting his lip, Sherlock braced his back against one wall, and put the bottom of his left foot against the opposite one. Then, he slowly straightened his leg, inching his back upwards as he used his arms on the walls to his side for balance. He positioned his right foot next, above his left one. With his pulse racing, pounding in his ears, his head passed into the light.

He couldn't see anything but overwhelming, blinding light. Sherlock shut his eyes against it and found the flesh of his eyelids still painfully illuminated orange. He opened his other senses and breathed in fresh, free air. It smelled like summer, outside his childhood home where he and Mycroft would spend a rare afternoon outdoors when the sun was high. It felt like a hug, warm and secure. It made his heart hurt for John.

With a wobble, his elbows gave way and Sherlock crashed to the bottom of the coffin with a groan. He was still trapped with his worst enemy: his own mind. Sherlock dropped his head into his hands. Why had no one come for him, not even his captors? No one had come to deliver food, nor water. Which means that it can't have been more than two or three days at most, since Sherlock hadn't even started feeling the horrible sensation of severe dehydration. He wasn't hungry, he wasn't tired.

Just lonely, though not as cold as before.

It felt like it had been so much longer than three days though. It felt like an eternity since he'd seen his friends, his family, his John. At this point, Sherlock would be pleased to even see his fat pig of a cousin. He just wanted to not be alone anymore.

"John!" Sherlock called out, though his voice was more hollow than it had ever been. Any hope he'd had, had been steadily fading since he'd found himself in this coffin where, perhaps, he would meet his end. "Severus! Mycroft…" his voice broke. Moisture welled up behind his eyes, still closed to block out the horrid light that had filled him with such nostalgia and loneliness. "John." A gasp burst from his chest so quickly that it burned. Sherlock clutched his ribcage. He'd never felt such pain. "John."

"John…"

"Myc…"

"Help?"

Sherlock drew his limbs closer to him, and felt his lungs all but collapse as the air deflated out of them. He felt as though he no longer had the strength to refill them, and as he sat there, not breathing, he wondered idly if it was possible to will oneself to die.

" _SMAAASSHH_!" The entire coffin quaked. Sherlock found himself jolted against the back wall, and grunted as the last bit of air in his lungs was forced out. He then sat very still, his eyes very wide. Bright, treacherous hope rose up in his gut, past his chest and filling his throat, choking him.

" _CRUNCH!"_ the coffin juddered yet again, and Sherlock unsteadily shoved himself upward. He heaved himself against the side of the coffin, beating a frantic rhythm into the wood with his fists which had long since grown raw from abuse.

"Let me out! LET ME OUT! LET ME OUT! LETMEOUTLEMMEOUTLEMMEOUTLEMMEOUTPLEASE GOD INEEDTOBEOUT!" Sherlock kicked and screamed and attacked the coffin with a vigor he didn't know he had left in him.

A muffled voice from the other side answered him. Sherlock immediately stopped making any sound, in hopes that the voice would say something again. It did, but Sherlock still couldn't make out any specific words. Was he being rescued? Or was this his capture come to taunt him?

"Who are you?" Sherlock demanded, all the while realizing that whoever was on the other side probably had no idea what _he_ was saying either. The coffin _lurched_ yet again, but, this time, the tiniest of cracked appeared right in front of Sherlock's nose. Now, he could very clearly hear a voice on the other side speak a word, and Sherlock barely had time to turn away and cover his face before the coffin's wall exploded in a shower of magic and splinters.

" _BOMBARDA!"_

*****1047******

Severus stared hard at the young man before him, busily chopping up dandelion stems, muttering darkly under his breath. Sherlock Potter was in detention, once again. Severus took a deep, steadying breath, reminding himself that what he was about to do was for Sherlock's own good. With the rising number of attacks, word had come from the board of governors that they might have to, at least temporarily, shut down the school.

If they shut down the school, then Sherlock would have nowhere to go but back to those blasted muggles. There was no way on earth that Potter would agree to accompany Severus back to Spinners End. Snape was fairly certain that Potter had something to do with the attacks, not only where most of the victims somehow connected to him, but Sherlock had been acting more and more aggressive towards the Slytherins. The only positive change being that, in the months since Christmas holidays, he'd finally started to treat the Little Weasley like he was supposed to.

Severus approached the young Gryffindor, inwardly cringing at the thought of what he was about to do. "Mister Potter" Severus drawled. Irritated green eyes met his own. "One day, you will thank me." _Hopefully._ The ire in Sherlock's eyes were replaced with confusion.

"Stupify…" A flash of red and Sherlock slumped over, landing in Severus' ready arms. With three long strides, Severus carried the tiny, unconscious form over to his fireplaced. He balanced Sherlock's body in one arm, so that he could use his now free one to grab a handful of Floo powder from a jar on the mantle.

"Nelle's Den" he intoned as the flamed flashed green. An instant later, he was stepping into a cozy looking living room that smelled strongly of medicinal herbs. "Nelle!" Severus called out, his voice echoing in the quiet house.

"Here, Sevvy!" An elderly woman with one blind eye and a crooked back hobbled over to him. "This is the lil' termite, eh? I'll take care of him, put him over there." Nelle carlessly gestured in the general direction of a rough-looking table with a worn, well-used quilt haphazardly thrown over the top of it. Tenderly, Severus laid the boy down.

"Fetch the crystals, Sevvy," Nelle commanded him as she collected random bottles from cluttered shelves and overflowing drawls until her boney, spotted arms were struggling to hold them all. She plopped them onto the table next to Sherlock's sleeping form with a clatter. "Rune stones as well, lad."

Severus quickly brought her what the old crone needed, as watched in silence as she set to work. With a spryness that took Severus by surprise, Nelle tossed dried flowers and leaves into her fireplace with unexpected accuracy, causing a thick cloud of grey-blue smoke to pour out of it. Nelle waved a wand that was just as crocked and gnarled as she was, and the cloud spun into a compact vortex and gathered around Sherlock's body.

Next, Nelle heated up the rune stones, then applied them onto Sherlock's body where the magical flow was strongest. She used runes of purity and cleansing, of power and revealing, of health and well-ness.

Lastly, she took the crystal and hung them in the air above the child. One by one, they began to spin amid the cloud of incense. The magic in the air filled them with light, and they spun faster and faster until there were two dozen crystals all rotating above Sherlock. The room was filled with the sound of the crystals vibrating, humming. It was ethereal.

Nelle chanted, waving her wand. Sherlock groaned and his back arched. A runestone of revealing suddenly blackened and crumbled into dust, blown away by the cloud. Where the stone had been, however, the ghostly form of the rune it held still glowed briefly, before a small white fire licked at Sherlock's robes and flickered out.

"It is as you expected, child," Nelle murmured. "There is powerful binding upon his very soul. His core is at war. But it was _not_ caused by a potion…" She frowned. "Not right now, anyway."

"What do you mean?"

"There is tampering in his body," she sighed. "Not just his soul, not just his core, but all three. It was too much for him. The boy who has been walking about in this skin is _not_ Harry Potter. Or should I say, he _is_ Harry Potter…and _only_ Harry Potter." Nelle levelled a very keen eye at Severus. "And we both know that this boy is far more than just the heir to the Potter fortunes…don't we?" Severus said nothing. Nelle cackled.

"Casting that aside, you don't need worry about the potions. He's already been cured of their effects. Now we just need to free his magic, mend his core and find his memory wherever it may be…." Nelle cracked her knuckles and Severus winced, half surprised that the knobby things didn't shatter at the rough treatment.

"Thank you, Nelle," Severus said quietly. "I know you have little reason to aid a denizen of Hogwarts after the horrible treatment you suffered at her hands." Nelle gave Severus a sympathetic look.

"My quarrel is with Alby. Sevvy," Nelle told him sternly. "You never did naught but listen to my blathers and blithers with the ears of a rabbit. And asides, Nicky would come back from the grave and haunt me if I e'r let a child go on suffering when I could have helped. Hear me?"  
"I hear you," Severus smiled. "Thank you, Nelle."

"Never mind that! Go fetch a bark of birch, hoof of griffin and heart of hart."

"Aye aye, Nelle"

****1047****

Tom was very nearly ready.

He was growing more powerful by the day, and Ginny was growing weaker. Just a few more days and, at long last, he would be able to finally meet Sherlock Potter face to face. He was certain that he would only need _one conversation_ with the boy, and he'd be able to get the answers he craved about this walking enigma. This boy who defeated a boy many times his age when he was but a babe. This boy who was so intelligent he could read your life in your face. The boy who had become a completely different person out of the blue.

Of course, most of his image of the boy came through the eyes of a love sick schoolgirl. Yet, there were things that Ginny said that Tom very sincerely doubted this bland child could have come up with on her own. There was something suspicious about what had happened to Sherlock, and Tom wanted to find out _what_.

*****1047****

Mycroft hadn't seen his brother all day. Even though Sherlock…wasn't quite himself, Mycroft always made sure to see him at least twice a day. That morning, Sherlock hadn't been to breakfast, and John had been sitting with the Longbottom child and Sherlock's ex-Potion's partner. Later that day in Potion's, Sherlock's normal seat next to John was also empty.

When dinner time rolled around and Sherlock was still nowhere to be seen, Mycroft determinedly made his way over to the Gryffindor table.

Before Sherlock's illness and resulting change in behavior, Mycroft had been only warily accepted by the Gryffindors. However, since then, whenever Sherlock wasn't around the entirety of Gryffindor had gone out of their way to ensure that Mycroft knew that he had their sympathy and support. It was…nice…but to be perfectly honest Mycroft would have preferred to have his baby brother back, and the ire of the entire house than whatever potential political connections he might gain from this opportunity.

"Where is he?" Mycroft began, admittedly somewhat brashly, but he was worried dammit. The Gryffindors shared pitying looks. The Weasley with glasses, Percival, patted Mycroft on the shoulder as John answered him.

"I was about to go ask you…" there was a weight in John's eyes, a slouch in his shoulders and Mycroft had noticed that his limp steadily came back, growing more and more pronounced throughout the day. "He…"John held himself, as though trying to give himself comfort. Longbottom aggressively cuddled him from his left side as John's eyes filled with tears while he struggled to get words out.

"Sherlock didn't come back to the tower last night," Longbottom whispered as though it was a terrible secret. "He always comes to say goodnight to John, even back when he first…got….weird. And even when before that when he was doing experiments. He _never_ forgot to say goodnight to John."

"We waited up for him," the boy on the other side piped up, Finnigan. "We waited until the early hours, we did."

"Do you think…" a female second year a few seats down leaned forward to throw her own two cents in. "You don't thin…the monster got him? After all, it went after Gremione…"

"NO!" John suddenly shouted. "No…he's fine! He's probably out hunting unicorns or mermen or fire-breathing dogs or-or-or" Longbottom pulled him closer as John began to cry. Mycroft hung his head. Percival made space at the table for him and, after a moment's deliberation, Mycroft sat down. With the practiced manner of a big brother (Mycroft would know) Percival filled up a plate and plopped it in front of him.

"Eat" said the older Weasley. "After dinner I'll take you both to the headmaster's office and we can ask him about Sherlock. I'm worried too, but if we're going to look for him you'll need your strength."

"You're going to help?" Draco asked Percival suspiciously. Percy looked almost offended.

"OF _Course_ I'm going to help, you ninny," Percy sniffed. "As prefect it's my job to take care of those in my house, and as a brother it's my job to take care of my siblings. Sherlock happens to fall into both categories so obviously I'm not going to stand for him spending _another_ night out wandering about doing Merlin knows what."

Mycroft picked up a fork and reluctantly speared a cubed vegetable. "Thank you…" Percival smiled kindly at him.

"Of course."

****1047****

Helga Hufflepuff smiled warmly at the little girl before her. "Madria," she chided with barely contained laughter "How many times must I tell you that Animagus transformations are _not_ done with transfiguration incantations."

"At least once more," Madria sniffed. "There _has_ to be a connection!"

"Of course there is," Helga conceded. "But not where you're looking my sweet," she clucked as she waved her wand over a rather disfigured looking wing growing at an odd angle out of where Madria's arm should have been. Madria watched carefully as her arms were slowly returned to normal.

"Thank you, Professor," the girl beamed at her. With a fond swat, Helga sent her out of the infirmary. Childish laughter echoed in the stone halls long after Madria had left.

"You must be more stern with them, Puff," said a smooth, amused voice. Helga turned, and very nearly bumped into her fellow professor. Power filled red eyes were dancing with mirth. Helga playfully tossed a harmless handful of daisy tops at him. "How will they ever take you seriously? If this goes on and their impertinence is left unchecked we could very well be left with an uprising on our hands."

"Well," Helga huffed, rolling her eyes and setting about her task of carefully placing clay casks of potions into a hay lined crate, "Hecate bless the man who would have to rise against them." She conjured up another layer of grass to put on top of the breakable containers before charming them against cracking. "For the goddess knows that Godric will surely join their cause."

"Join them?" Salazar snorted indelicately, much in contrast to his carefully cultivated image of the nobility that he was. "That buffoon would instigate the rebellion."

Helga scoffed as she sealed the crate closed and began filling a second one. "Come off of it, Sal. You and I both know you'd never raise your wand against that 'buffoon'. He's got you wrapped around his finger." Salazar spluttered. Helga arched an eyebrow. "When he got the bright idea to enchant _broom sticks_ to **_FLY_** you simply went along with it. And then proceeded to _play_ with him. Look me in the eyes, Sal, and tell me you would have tolerated that sort of nonsensical whimsy from anyone besides Ric?"

"Godric would have indulged in that foolishness regardless of whether or not I encouraged him," Sal argued. "I simply ensured that he didn't kill himself. With his luck, he'd probably have managed to impale himself on a broom handle!"

"Who would?" Helga and Salazar turned to see a petite young man prance in, his arms filled with fresh mandrakes, magically petrified so as to not be a threat. "Jenson? That lad is pretty off balance on a broom. I should give him pointers later." Godric flashed a bright grin at Salazar and Helga, both of whom found themselves returning it despite themselves.

"Got you a little something, Puff," Godric smiled, pressing a dry kiss to her check, having to stand slightly on tip toe as he did so. "Found these in the wood, thought it best to harvest them before a student pulled them out and died." He carelessly deposited the enchanted roots onto an empty bed, covering the clean blanket in dirt and insects. "You done with those packages yet?" he asked before she could respond to either thank or rebuke him. "I've got the hippogriffs ready to go, and Rowena already had the elves bundle up the food into the cart."

"What about the clothing and wand materials?" Salazar interrupted Helga just as she opened her mouth.

"Already loaded. So? You done?"

"Yes, yes!" Helga picked up both crates and shoved them into Godric's slender arms. Sparing a moment to pull a blade of grass out of his wild hair. "Off with you! And mind those potions! They're worth a good deal!"

"S'not like we're selling them, Puff" Godric mumbled.

"No," she agreed. "But I don't feel like rebrewing them, you ruffian. Now OFF!"

"I'm off!" Godric replied with a wink. "Coming along with me, Sally?"

"Just why would I join you on your traipse to the country side, fiend?" Salazar retorted superciliously. Godric bumped into Salazar's side with his shoulder. Helga had to smile at the two of them. Salazar was pale, with smooth hair the color of morning sunshine and eyes the shade of rubies, Godric was tanned by said sunshine and crowned by a rough mane of shaggy black locks and eyes like pools of deep water. While Salazar was strong and tall, Godric was…not. And yet, despite Godric's lack of stature he was the most valiant of them all. And reckless. And creative. Brilliant when he wanted to be but he rarely cared to be.

"Because you love me," Godric rejoined. "Come Sally, we've work to be done." With a deeply put upon sigh, Salazar stalked out behind his smaller friend.

"Helga, send a fowl if one Lord Eanruig comes to call, yes?" Helga sighed rather than answer but it didn't really matter. The two men were already out the door to deliver goods to a nearby town which served as a refuge for magi and druids alike. Briefly, she whispered a prayer to Hermes for their safety, then went back about her business.

****1047****

Sherlock slowly turned around, waving away the debris cloud caused from the total destruction of the coffin's side. "Aeldin?" It couldn't be possible, it just couldn't. Yet it was. There, before him was a young man with a thick head of raven hair and forget-me-not eyes set on a fair face. If those weren't telling enough, the figure was also wearing an old fashioned Hogwarts uniform with a green necktie.

The older boy knelt down before Sherlock, looking as though he wanted to physically reach out to him but not feeling comfortable enough to do so. "Are you alright?" Aeldin asked. "What's going on?"

"When did you get a body?" Sherlock asked rather than answering. Aeldin frowned. "You don't have a body? This…this isn't. N-no, this? It's all…" Sherlock began to laugh, helplessly. Hysterically. "It's all in my head, isn't it?" Sherlock gasped. "That's why I'm not hungry or tired or thirsty. That's why no one came. I've been stuck in my mind palace." Sherlock dropped his head to thump against the remaining wall of the coffin. "Funny….I don't remember building this particular structure."

"You don't know how you got here, then?" Aeldin asked dryly. "Or why the entire palace is in complete shambles?"

"What?" Sherlock asked. He began to rise, and Aeldin pulled him up by his elbow, steadying him. "Show me. Also, how long has it been?"

"Merlin, Sherlock. How am I supposed to know?"

Sherlock glared at him, and then ignored him to instead glower at the mess which used to be a perfectly organized paradise of order and cleanliness. It looked as though a pack of trolls had thrown a frat party. It was the work of a moment to set the area right, but as soon as he finished with one room, putting every memory back into place, he'd find another part of his palace that had been completely decimated.

"How did you get out?" Sherlock asked Aeldin while he worked. "I don't recall giving you free rein of the place." Aeldin looked somewhat sheepish and somewhat guilty.

"As if your untrained mind could ever hope to be a match for me," the soul piece said haughtily. Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I could have left whenever I wanted, I simply chose to do so now out of boredom."

"Yes," Sherlock humored him. "And I'm sure my obviously weakened mental state had nothing to do with it at all." Aeldin sniffed imperiously. Sherlock found himself growing weary very quickly, and soon and to cease in the repairs.

"Are you alright?" Aeldin asked in what was most definitely not concern. Sherlock had bend over, hands on his knees, breathing heavily which he shouldn't have had to feel the need to do, considering that he wasn't a physical being at the moment.

"I don't know," Sherlock found himself saying truthfully. "Something's terribly wrong. Look at my poor magic. It's been drained or…" Sherlock placed his hand in the stream which flowed through every room. It felt as powerful as ever. Why, then, was it so weak. "Wait." Sherlock walked opposite to the current, following the stream back to its source.

"Wait? Here?" Aeldin asked in disbelief. "Really?"

******1047*******

Severus sat next to the unmoving, sleeping child, his hand carding through knotted hair. When Sherlock came back to them all, he'd throw a fit about the state of it, Severus thought idly before bringing out his wand and carefully smoothing the knots and snarls from the strands. "He's already mending," Nelle said comfortingly, coming up to him. "He's powerful, and his magic is wild. I believe that he would have been fine, eventually, even if you hadn't brought him to me. He was already fighting. I just gave him a little nudge."

"Will there be any long term consequences?" Severus asked quietly. Nelle shrugged as she poured a clear liquid into Sherlock's mouth, then forced hi to swallow. "Do you at least know who did this to him?" Severus begged, itching for a name that he could raise his want against in defense of his suffering child.

"I do," Nelle said. "And if you would set aside your blinders, Severus, you would as well." She lifted her old, weathered hand and made as if to pat Severus on the shoulder, but at the last second gave him a resounding smack on his arm, making him flinch back more out of surprise than hurt.

"What?" Severus snapped.

"Let him sleep, you humming bird," she cackled. "He'll not wake any sooner just because you're sitting there grooming him like some ugly breed of cat." Severus gave a hearty " _Hmph_ " and resolutely turned away from the ancient witch.

******1047*****

"Peppermint Sticks" Percy said in a clear, bossy tone of voice to the gargoyle at the end of a hallway. The statue seemed to regard Percy for a moment, before slowly shuffling out of the way. Just behind the statue, a staircase shifted and warped itself into existence from out of the brick. "After you, gentlemen," Percy said to Mycroft and John with a sweeping gesture.

Mycroft stepped forward first, striding up the stairs with all the grace of a well-bred aristocrat. John was soon after, but with his returned limp his ascent was far slower. Percy felt dread and fear creep into his soul like a frost as he watched. The way John leaned and swayed as he struggled up the stairs was in no way unfamiliar to him.

Percy patiently walked up the stairs behind his younger brother, every now and then offering a helping hand when John seemed to struggle. "It's all right, Ronnie," Percy whispered into his brother's ear. "We'll find him, you'll see."

It came to no one's surprise when Dumbledore's office stood open, waiting for them. The Headmaster sat behind his large, sturdy desk with his hands folded in front of him. His blue eyes twinkled in knowing as they shuffled in. Mycroft gracefully dropped into a chair without waiting for invitation while the two Weasleys present awkwardly stood until Dumbledore waved a hand towards the two remaining seats.

"What can I do for you boys?" he asked.

"Where's my brother?" Mycroft asked.

"Straight to the point then, Mr. Malfoy?" Dumbledore smiled. "Rather unusual for a Slytherin, I must admit." Mycroft's face pinched, and John could tell that Mycroft was about to lose his temper.

"Do you know what else is unusual, Professor?" Mycroft asked with a thin veil of politeness. "The fact that my little brother hasn't been seen by student, professor, ghost nor house elf in the last twenty four hours. Please, Headmaster. Where is he?"

"It's just that we're very worried, sir," cut in Percy, afraid that the young Slytherin might had offended the most powerful wizard in Europe. "He hasn't been to any meals, hasn't been to the tower, and when we tried to send an owl to track him the poor thing just flew around in circles."

Dumbledore sighed and leaned back in his chair. "I do not know for certain where young Mister Potter is," Mycroft stiffened and John began to tremble. Seeing this, Dumbledore was quick to continue. "I do, however, know what he is _doing_."

"And pray tell, what is that?" Mycroft hissed.

"He is receiving treatment."

Percy looked gobsmacked, while John and Mycroft simply looked relived. "Even I don't fully understand, but it seems that a little prank played by a student went wrong. We are uncertain whether it was an allergic reaction, or a here-to undiscovered reaction to that particular potion with the healing potions that were prescribed to young Harry, or if the potion was made incorrectly or a tragic combination of the two."

"But it's reversible?" John asked, his voice thin and shakey.

Dumbledore's kindly finally cracked a bit. He looked tired and, maybe even a tad guilty. "We can always hope, can't we Mr. Weasley?"

*****1047****  
 **Maybe if I get a hundred reviews I wont wait another three months for the next update….lolol**


	31. Never Forget You

**Never Forget You**

 ** _I dedicate this chapter to MoonxXxAngel and her best friend. I wish you happy endings._**

 **I'm really happy with how much support you guys have given me over the past few days. I've been trying to finish up another chapter in Mischievous Intentions, but then my mind will keep wandering back over here. So I figured I'd just give in to my muse and write another chapter of A Study in Identity.**

 **To those of you who have speculated about the "thrice born" part of the prophesy, most of you hit the nail right on the head. Not all of you were** ** _completely_** **correct though. Kyoanna, though. I read all of your reviews and it just tickled me every time I got one. You are very close to the truth, dear reader. Very close.**

 **Also, Kudos to those who figured out who Nelle is. Just as a hint: she's dying and it's kinda Sherlock's fault.**

 **Anyway, I love you guys. Please favorite, review and follow. Your support means a lot to me. I promise this arc is ending soon, and we will move on to happier pastures and I** ** _promise_** **that I had a reason for dragging our boys down this rather angsty road.**

 **May the gods be ever in your favor (though they'd favor you more if you reviewed)**

 **~James**

Dumbledore was finding it harder and harder to remain calm in the face of this year's drama. The small group of Weasley and Malfoy boys were far from the first to invade his office out of concern for Harry James Potter. Filius and Minerva were also regulars to come and try to wring answers out of Albus, as if the Headmaster could simply wave his wand and make answers appear. Lee Jordan and the Weasley twins had also come up several times with various theories, some of which were actually part amusing and part ingenious, theorizing that Sherlock was victim of prank gone wrong. Blaise Zabini and several Slytherin upperclassmen had swallowed their pride and cited several school policies which stated that any student under obvious mental affliction or illness was able to be admitted to a health facilities by the headmaster. Even Neville Longbottom had summoned up enough courage to come to his office, alone, after Creevy had been petrified, begging Dumbledore to run diagnostic spells over his friend.

It had gotten to the point where Albus could no longer deny that, like with the love potion he'd instructed Molly to feed Harry, he'd made a terrible mistake when he'd ordered Harry's core be bound. Rising to his feet, feeling old a weary, Albus mentally ran possibilities for what was to come. With the Philosopher's Stone still missing, and Nicolaus dead, there was a very real possibility that Voldemort was either regaining power and laying low, or was in the process of coming back at the moment.

Lucius, as little as Albus trusted the Malfoy Lord, did not show any telltale signs of being back under Tom's dominion. Severus, as well, had yet to report any change in his mark. It was originally because of this that Albus felt safe in taking Harry down a peg and sealing his magic. But now, he didn't wonder if, somehow in some way, Riddle had interfered with the Goblins that Albus had….hired….to do his bidding. Perhaps _this_ is why Harry Potter was now acting less like a hero and more like an entitled pureblood.

In a flash of green fire, Albus disappeared into the Floo with the words "Gringotts Lobby!" clearly spoken. A few minutes later, he was seated in the office of a dazed looking Goblin. "Jowlclutch" Albus greeted him genially. "I've come about the binding on Mr. Potter." Eyes distant and mouth slightly slack, the goblin replied.

"What of Lord Potter-Peverell?"

"I must have the binding removed."

The Goblin hesitated, and Albus stood, meeting the Goblin's gaze. He really hated using mind magic on a lesser creature such as Goblins and House Elves. It always left him with a mild headache, presumably because their minds were so very different from that of wizardkind. "I must have the binding of Lord Potter-Peverell removed, Jowlclutch."

With shakey breath, the Goblin nodded. "Have you a sample of Lord Potter-Peverell's magick, Headmaster Dumbledore?" With only slight reluctance, Dumbledore handed over a magically sealed vial that contained a tiny, white spark that danced around. It was the last bit of Harry Potter's magic that Dumbledore had in his possession. He'd taken it without the boy noticing one night as he and Ronald slumbered together during their first year. However, it was of no consequence. After all, he could always get more from the child after he came back from wherever it was Severus had taken him to be "treated".

Albus had no doubt that as soon as the magic binding the boy was released, that "Sherlock" would be right as rain, and back to terrorizing the Potion's classroom as he had done before. The Goblin's long, spindly fingers took hold of the vial with something like reverence, even through his magic addled mind.

"Very well," the Goblin breathed. "I shall perform the ritual, Master Wizard."

*****1047*****

Nelle was chanting, painting the boy's pale skin with thick, grey cream-like potion. The smoke coming from burning herbs make the area almost impossible to breathe in, but Severus wasn't going anywhere. With tense, worried eyes, he watched as his beloved student suddenly began to levitate off of the table.

Nelle seemed neither surprised nor concerned as she chanted, she eyes shut lightly, as though in a trance. It was only because of her apparent ease that Severus did not interrupt her to demand what was happening to cause the magic around the child to behave so. The markings painted onto his skin suddenly blazed with a blue fire that was curiously cold in temperature.

Despite being under a strong enchantment designed to keep him unconscious for the procedure, Sherlock groaned and writhed, prompting Nelle to cast a full body-binding spell on him. Severus winced as he saw the child go ramrod stiff. Nelle stopped chanting, instead grabbing a small cup filled with liquid which had been dripping from a bundle of magical flowers that had been dipped in the milk of a dragon, and pouring it into Sherlock's magically slackened mouth.

"The enchantment is strong," Nelle said, her voice raspy with age and use. "Old magicks. Goblin, probably. I can break it, but it will not be pleasant for the boy," she warned. "All of his previously contained magic will burst out of the parts of his core, which had been previously walled off. It may even physically hurt him."

"Any lasting damage?" Severus asked, fighting to control his composure, to not reach out and smooth the drawn, twelve-year-old brow.

Nelle set her mouth in a grim line. "Not if I can help it, lad."

****1047*****

Mycroft had _always_ prided himself in his office of big brother. Back when they were Holmeses, Mycroft had utilized his vast army of goons and spies to ensure that his baby brother was always as well as he could be, even when Sherlock had been in the middle of his rebellious phase, on the run and on drugs.

Yet, even then, Mycroft hadn't given up on his brother. He knew the potential that his brother had and, more than that, they were family. And the Holmeses, for all of their many faults and flaws, didn't give up on family. True, there had been times in the past where this duty felt more like a burden he was forced to bear than anything else.

This was one of those times, and this time it wasn't even Sherlock's fault.

Mycroft had been trying all semester to figure out what was wrong with his baby brother. He'd become a verifiable genius on mind altering spells and potions, he'd become all but a professional ritual scholar, particularly in the areas of personality swapping rituals. He'd dug through ancient texts in every corner of the library, even the restricted section as his godfather had given him unlimited free access. He even researched creatures with dark mind abilities. He'd looked up ghosts and specters with the power to distort the souls of the living. He'd delved into the "magical science" behind curse scars and the possible repercussions and symptoms and the cures thereof.

In between his strenuous bouts of research and his classes, Mycroft had been firing honest-to-goodness volleys of spells, charms and counter-curses that he thought might have the potential to fix whatever was broken inside of his baby brother. Nothing worked. Nothing even _happened_. Next, he moved on to brewing his own antidotes and potions, then slipping them into Sherlock's food.

He'd enlisted the help of the first through third years of the Gryffindors and Hufflepuffs, and several prefects from every house to help him keep an eye on Sherlock, and report back to him with anything and everything they could. Mycroft had mapped out his brother's behavioral patterns, his new diet, who he associated with, everything and including his speech pattern which had also altered from what it had been.  
Even more worrying was how Sherlock's reading level seemed to have dropped _several_ levels. He also slept more than what was normal for even a typical twelve year old, as his spies in Gryffindor reported that he often took naps in his free time that lasted several hours.

Mycroft had learned _nothing_ except that his brother had been completely replaced. Replaced by a stranger. Mycroft put down the dusty old tome he'd been studying, not bothering to put it away as he knew that one of the House Elves assigned to the library would be more than happy to take care of it for him. With an undignified snarl, Mycroft slammed a fist on the desk top, his magic leaking out of his control, swirling in dark wisps around his fingers. Had anyone else acted in such a manner, they would have been tossed out of the library on their ears. As it were, Irma Pince only gave the Malfoy Heir a pitying glance, then looked the other way. Mycroft ignored her.

His shoulder ached.

He clasped a hand over it, feeling the gentle thrum of magic that pulsed in the runes tattooed to his skin with a bittersweet feeling. It connected him to his brother. His real brother, not the imposter walking around with Sherlock's face. He loved the simple design, the instinctive knowledge that it poured into the part of his brain that controlled his magical core that let him know his brother was alive. And yet, he _hated_ it, because it never let him forget that, in some way, his brother was in danger.

It never stopped aching, throbbing like a second pulse. It prevented him from sleeping, guilted him out of eating, distracted him from studying and drove him to the edge of insanity. He massaged the runes, breathing in deeply, trying to regain a modicum of control. Pushing away from the table he'd been sitting at for three hours now, he strode of the library.

His feet carried him down a path that he'd often found himself going for the past month or so. He walked, almost as though in a daydream, all the way to the infirmary.

He pushed open the heavy wooden doors, and barely acknowledged it when Madam Pomfrey greeted him somberly, but no less warmly. He passed by the still forms that were the victims of the alleged Slytherin's monster. He spared a regretful glance for one Colin Creevey, but none of the others. Not until he reached the still form at the very end of the rows of an athletic young person with short, choppy hair that really was in dreadful need of another trim.

Even in a stillness like death, Gregory's eyes were bright with intelligence, curiosity. Inquisitiveness. All of the things that made her a great Detective Inspector in her past life, and what made Sherlock willing to cooperate…in his own unique way. Mycroft sat down in a chair beside the bed, and heaved a sigh, that turned into a silent sob. Just one. He was mostly cried out, and didn't that say something about his mental state. Him, who had once ruled over all England with a frosty, icy first. He felt like his heart had been put through a clothing wringer.

"Gregory," Mycroft's voice broke. "Gregory, I…I've heard that the mandrakes will be prepared for harvest in two weeks, just two short weeks, maybe less." He tried for a smile, but wasn't sure that it came out exactly right. "I tried your suggestion, a-about the fey who were known for mental manipulation." He groaned quietly. "I couldn't find _any_ thing. I'm not giving up, and I won't I _won't_. I just don't know what to do anymore. I know you thought that the monster had something to do with things, and that it affected Sherlock somehow. It's just, in all of the records detailing the Founder's Era, it says _nothing_ about Salazar Slytherin having a familiar, let alone a 'monster'."

Mycroft hesitantly reached out a hand, placing it on Gregory's wrist. It was a habit he'd fallen into, upon the realization that, even though her heart had stopped, the flow of her magic had not. His mind, never still, had then hypothesized that this was the reason that there were no records of muggles being petrified in this way. Without magic to sustain the victim, they would die. Of course, this wasn't in the _least_ bit helpful, even still Mycroft wasn't able to shut his brain up. With the stress he was dealing with, his mental control was shot.

…is Mrs. Norris sill alive because she's a familiar? But she's a familiar to as squib and so the magic shared between her and Filch between the familiar bond would be totally nonexistent. And as an animal, wouldn't it be plausible that it would take less energy to keep her alive? But then…what if Filch were to be petrified? Would the fact that his magic was mostly unavailable to him mean that he'd die?

Mycroft sighed, and tried to focus on the gentle rhythm of Gregory's magic, to empty his head from his random, useless theories that weren't doing anything but stressing him out. "I'm trying so hard," Mycroft whispered. "But nothing I do…I might even be making things _worse_ for all I know. I've been reading about compounded magics, and…Gregory, what have I done? What-wh-what if everything I'm doing is only ensuring that Sherlock will never be himself again?"

His grip tightened on Gregory's wrist unintentionally. He heard a rustle.

His head whipped up so fast that his overused brain protested in pain. There, between Greg's slim fingers…with precision, Mycroft pried a stiff pieces of paper out of her hand. With a cautious glance at her face, Mycroft unfolded the page that had clearly been ripped straight from a library book. He spared a thought, wondering what would have prompted Gregory, rule-following, book-worshiping Gregory, to have disrespected a library book in such a way.

"Basilisk?" of course Mycroft had considered the possibility. But there wasn't much information about them, as they had to be purposefully brought into existence by extremely powerful Dark Wizards. In fact, it had been said that only a true Lord of the Dark was able to coax one into existence. It's true that Lord Slytherin had fit the bill, but Basilisks _killed_ with their magic, they didn't petrify. And Mycroft had bigger things on his plate, to many other, more important things than researching mythical snakes. But then he unfolded it the rest of the way and saw two scribbles underneath the short article.

" _Mirrors"_ Gregory had written. _"Pipes_ "

"You," Mycroft breathed out. He ran through the list of victims. He laughed, disbelievingly. "You, my dear, are a _genius_."

Mycroft looked back down at the paper, then massaged his temples. "That…or I am _terribly_ sleep deprived."

****1047*****

Sherlock and Aeldin followed the weak flow of his magic for what seemed like days. Aeldin did not speak much, preferring instead to drink in what he saw around him. After so long in that one, small room of Sherlock's mind, he was almost dizzy with how much _more_ there was to Sherlock's seemingly instinctual Occlumency system he called his "Mind Palace".

This suited Sherlock just fine, as his thoughts were racing. Since this was his mind, was he then unconscious? How long had he been unconscious for? He couldn't ask Aeldin, because the soul fragment had no way of telling real world time. He hoped it hadn't been too long. He remember all the times, back _before_ when Sherlock landed himself in a hospital after a case. John would stay by his side the entire time, which pleased Sherlock. However, his face would always be drawn and ragged, his eyes puffy and shoulders stiff. After particularly rough instances, John might walk with a sore knee for a day or two. This did _not_ please Sherlock.

And yet, when Sherlock was being completely honest with himself, he loved that split instant right after he woke up, before John began lecturing him with a front of anger, when John's eyes would light up in the most spectacular way. Sherlock had saved every single one of those precious seconds, and stored them away in a treasure chest.

During his stint with the Dursleys, when things got really bad, when Sherlock was aching and hungry, when the loneliness got too be all too much, he's retreat into that secret room and pull out those memories. He'd play them on repeat, cherishing every one of the ten muscles in John's face that created his beautiful smile.

Sometimes he'd let the memory run through John's near consistent irate tirade "You're such a bloody idiot, Sherlock." "I don't know why I put up with you" "Don't go throwing yourself in front of cars!" "Do you _want_ to give me a heart attack?" "I rather prefer you not dead, you git." He'd sit and listen to John's yelling. He'd watched John's angry tears that glistens in his eyes but never touched his cheeks. He'd remember the way that John would grasp his hand, without seeming to even notice he was doing so. He did it to remember what it was like when someone yelled at him to let him know he was wanted. Loved. Cared for.

Sherlock had a sudden urging to go to the room with the treasure chest and revisit those memories. After having gone so long without access to John at all, through memory or physical sight, his loneliness returned three fold, in a way that was almost painful despite walking side by side with Aeldin.

But he refrained. After all, he had little doubt that John would be there waiting for him as soon as he woke up, with that beautiful smile that could light up a million candles and put the stars to shame.

"Is that supposed to be there?" Sherlock was startled out of his thoughts. Aeldin stood still, about three paces behind him, pointing forward with a curious look on his face. Following his finger, Sherlock's jaw slackened.

"Er…no. No, it's not."

In front of them, at the end of the stream, was a great wall of magic. Sherlock approached it, placing a hand on it's side. It felt….wrong. Foreign. It wasn't his, he could tell that much. His own magic felt special, energetic, _alive._ This felt…cold. Like stone, yet fluid. Sherlock pushed, and while some of the energy swirled over his finger tips, he felt nothing give. It was ice blue in color, Sherlock's own was varying shades of white which occasionally become mother of pearl which occasionally became and iridescent mess of every color there was. Sherlock _adored_ his magic for it's chaotic beauty but this magic was nothing like his. It was exactly one hue, so you could scarcely see the individual strands unless you looked closely.

"I believe we have discovered what put you in that closet," Aeldin said absently as he, too, pressed against the wall. Sherlock was about to reply something sarcastic, but just then the wall gave a great _shudder_. It created and groaned like an iceberg and Sherlock's eyes widened. He pushed against it, harder. Nothing happened.

With a growl of frustration, Sherlock mentally pulled on the pathetic magic he had left outside this barrier. The stream, the mere trickle of energy, responded weakly. Aeldin watched in concern as the stream began to turn into a puddle, pooling around Sherlock's feet. As the horcrux watched, it dried up everywhere but where Sherlock was.

"It's not supposed to do that," Aeldin warned. "Stop, Sherlock! You'll turn yourself into a squib!" Sherlock merely redoubled his efforts as he felt rejuvenated by the full contact with the remainder of his magic. It began to heat up, and Sherlock sighed in relief, as though he'd stepped into a hot spring. As more and more of the magic was pulled to him, it piled up into a respectable wave.

With a roar, Sherlock crashed it into the wall and listened with satisfaction as the barrier creaked in protest. Again and again, like a battering ram, Sherlock tossed every ounce of magic he had at the wall.

This is what trapped him. This is what kept him from his family, his friends. He just needed to break it, Sherlock was sure, and then he'd wake up.

"What are you _doing_?" Aeldin had fallen backwards, forced to the ground by the force of Sherlock's furious attack.

"This is the way out," Sherlock spat out through his gritted teeth. "This hall, it leads to my core. It's trapped my core."

Aeldin staggered to his feet, legs wobbling on the shaking ground like a new born foal. He braced himself against the wall. With all of the energy he'd siphoned off of Sherlock, he poured it out of his body. It wasn't white, like Sherlock's pure magic. It had begun to mingle and mix with the remnants of Aeldin's own magic in his fractured soul. It was a strange, dusty grey, but it would have to be strong enough.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at Aeldin, in an instant knowing what Aeldin had taken from him, then dismissing it as unimportant. Together, they threw Dark and Light at the wall between Sherlock and his core,

******1047******

"There is something wrong," Nelle muttered. "His magic…it…" she frowned, and leaned closer while prying open one of Sherlock's eyes with two fingers.

"What is it" Severus ground out, feeling more agitated and peevish than he had since he still served the Dark Lord. "What's wrong?"  
"His magic has all but disappeared," Nelle shook her head. "I don't understand it." She took a deep breath. "We may be running out of time, Severus."

"Running out of time for _what_?"

Nelle didn't answer. Instead, she rushed out of the room. Severus found himself on his feet without a thought, poised to follow but Nelle soon returned with her hand clutched around the neck of an ancient looking leather sack. With the speed and precision of a muggle black jack dealer, she reached into the bag, pulling out a handful of sparkling gems, each carved with runes that were unfamiliar to Severus, and flipped them onto Sherlock's body, which was still floating a solid eighteen inches above the table top.

The gems clung to Sherlock like magnets, and the crystals still rotating above his form spun faster until they were but a blur. A terrible noise, like screams, came from nowhere. Severus resisted the urge to cover his ears. And then, an even more horrible, nightmarish sound pierced the air of the small house.

" _Jooooooohn!"_

Sherlock's scream was animalistic, full of pain and heartbreak. His back arched as a burst of magic suddenly through off the body bind. Severus was quick to replace it, but it took several times before one would stay in place. All the while, Sherlock _thrashed_ and screamed guttural, unintelligible noises. Only a few words were possible to be made out. _Mycroft. Severus. John. John. Mummy. Mycroft._

The sudden drop in noise when the body bind succeeded, despite the crystals still shrieking, made something inside Severus squirm with not-rightness.

Nelle's eyes glowed **black**. Severus instinctively shied away from her. Despite his own orientation being dark, and having served the Dark Lord, Nelle's magic was on another level from any other magical person Severus had met. She was powerful, which is why he'd taken his child to her in the first place.

She laid her hands on him, and the crystals shattered, the gems cracked, and a wave of the purest, whitest, _strongest_ magic he'd ever seen exploded from Sherlock's body, destroying the table beneath him, and decimating Nelle's kitchen. The smoke that had permeated in the kitchen had dissipated completely, perhaps cleansed from existence by Sherlock's magic.

As for Sherlock, his eyes were open. Just as Nelle's eyes had shone black with her power, Sherlock's were an eerie white. Severus stepped closer to the boy, placing his hand on the boy's forehead. A soft breath exhaled from Sherlock's lips, and the white gave way for green. Sherlock blinked once. Twice. He looked around himself, confused at why he was laying on the broken remains of a wood table. Snape was by his side in and instant, drawing the tiny boy into his arms, body curling over his child in an instinctive, protective move.

" _S'vrus_?" Sherlock asked, eyelids droopy, and jaw slackened. Sherlock took a deep breath, as though doing so was difficult work. "Severus?"

"I'm right here, you insufferable brat," Severus assured him which what was most definitely not a smile. He framed the tiny face with his hands, thumb brushing away the moisture that had gathered at the corners of those beautiful, beautiful eyes. A warmth he hadn't realized he'd lost grew in his chest as Sherlock gave a tiny whine and turned his face into Severus' shirt. What the brat said next, Severus could have predicted word for word.

"Where's my John?"

***1047****

Tom grinned in cruel satisfaction as he dipped his host's fingers into the severed neck of a crow. He always _did_ enjoy finger painting. He hummed to himself as he stroked letters onto the wall. He was disappointed to find that Sherlock had disappeared, but he had no doubt that, which Sherlock's strange new attitude, that the Boy-Who-Lived would come to this pathetic girl's rescue. He was, after all, a Gryffindor.

 ** _Her skeleton will lie in the Chamber forever_**


	32. When He Loved Me

**When He Loved Me**

 ** _This chapter is dedicated to Emily. Please keep reviewing. You made me laugh._**

 **Hey guys!**

 **Yes, Nelle is Perenelle Flamel, kudos to the people who guessed. And yes, she is dying, because Sherlock still has the Philosopher's Stone he stole. Also, Kyoanna, you're getting warmer ;). Thank you so much EVERYONE who reviewed. You guys have no idea how much of this story's plot was thought up due to inspiration by you readers. Please keep giving me your ideas. While I may not incorporate much of what you give me, your ideas always get me thinking about new possibilities I hadn't thought of and then my plot starts to get twistier.**

 **This story got so much more attention than I was expecting when I first started writing it, and is by far my favorite Fanfic I've done. And it's all thanks to you that I've stuck with it. Love you guys.**

 **Also, a lot of you have PMed me, asking about my updating schedule, and to just answer all of you guys at once, I will aim for one MoD chapter a week, but I usually wait to start writing until I have around 30 reviews, and I wait to post until I have at least 50. This is both to pace myself, as I also have college work that I need to focus on, and to make sure that this story still has demand.**

 **May the gods be ever in your favor**

 **-James**

Severus all but prostrated himself before Nelle in gratitude and relief, still clutching Sherlock to his chest. Nelle waved him away. "If you ever need anything, Sevvy," she said warmly. "Just come right back here. Now get. I reckon that child needs a bit more medical attention, and my supplies seem to have suddenly disappeared." She said gesturing to the rubble that used to be her kitchen.

With a swift apology, Severus stood to his feet. He shifted Sherlock in his hold so that he was cradling the small boy in one arm, before he reached out to clasp Nelle's wrinkled hand in his own. "I will _never_ be able to repay you, Nelle." He told her. "Never."

"Don't I know it," said the old witch wryly. "No _get_ before that child falls back asleep and everything we just did comes for naught!" That got Severus moving and, almost before he realized what he was doing, he was stepping out of the green Flooplace in the Infirmary. Madam Pomfrey gasped and dropped a vial of blue potion, which then gave off the indicative foul smell of calming draught.

Severus soon saw the reason for the potion, as he purposefully walked past the still, silent forms of the petrified students to where there was a free bed. His own godson was agitatedly pouring over a copy of Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them, looking manic, at the bedside of one Hermione Granger. Draco's head snapped up. As Severus gently, quickly, laid Sherlock's limp body down onto the nearest available bed, he saw the deep rings on Draco's paler than normal face around his eyes, the redness around his pupils.

"Poppy!" Severus called, though he really didn't need to. The Mediwitch was already on her way, floating a plethora of medical tools and potions behind her. Before she'd even reached the bed that held Sherlock, she was already casting diagnostic spells, and catching several potions from the air around her. "You mustn't let him fall asleep just yet," Severus warned her, seeing that one of the potions she'd grabbed was intended to help patients fall unconscious. "The healer I've just come from told me that if he does, all previous treatment will be undone. Now, I believe it's just a matter of healing the obvious damage done by the treatment. She'd have done it herself, but…her workplace was somewhat…compromised."

Poppy nodded wordlessly as she worked. After vanishing several potions into Sherlock's gut she spoke. "He's magically exhausted" Severus nodded, having expected this. "Whatever caused him to exhaust his magic also left several areas where his nerve endings were damaged, but that's an easy fix. My scans indicate great mental trauma, and that…is not so easily magicked away, Severus."

"Mister Malfoy," Severus turned to his godson, and then hesitated a moment. Draco was staring at Sherlock with such a heartbreaking look. It was as though Sherlock was sunlight, and Draco a blind man who'd only just been given sight. Luckily, Draco shook himself out of whatever it was quickly and stood to his feet.

"I'll go fetch John," he said crisply, before racing out of the room.

****1047****

Cedric felt guilty as he listened to his friends gossip on the way to Charms. "Did you hear?" whispered one of his friends in a low tone. "Potter's been taken to Saint Mungos."

"No," said another Hufflepuff. "Really? It's about time then! So, they found proof of something, did they? I wonder what happened?"

"It's none of our business," Cedric tried to steer the conversation away from the topic of the poor little second year who was probably suffering from some kind of magical mental illness. His friends ignored him with practiced ease.

"I heard that one of the older Slytherins poisoned him."

"No way, Malfoy would throw a fit. Not to mention Flint's fond of the little bugger for some reason. Or, he was until this year."

"So, maybe it was Flint?"

"I dunno. I heard that it was Slytherin's monster. I've heard it said that it's some kind of demon, and now it's possessing Potter's body. Maybe that's why they've taken him away. To go get exorcised."

"Geez, McKay, you're such a Muggleborn! There's no such thing as demons and the only people who exorcise people are crazy muggles."

"My Uncle Dave got exorcised once…he wasn't crazy before, but boy is he now….Poor crazy Uncle Dave."

Cedric was about to comment on McKay's crazy uncle, just to keep them from going back to the Sherlock topic, when a scream pierced the hall, effectively cutting off all conversation for two solid seconds, before the noise returned as a thunderous roar. The part of Cedric that had landed him in Hufflepuff in the first place urged him forward, slipping agilely through and around curious students, until he reached the front of the crowd. What he saw sent chills down his spin.

"Guess this rules out the Potter brat," mumbled one Ravenclaw. "He's not even here."

"Or maybe that's just what he wants you to think," sniped back a Slytherin.

"Someone has to get a professor," Cedric said disbelievingly. "And why are you all just standing around gawking. Find out who was taken!" So saying he took off in the direction of the nearest Professor's office, as the students suddenly scrambled to make sure all of their female friends were still alive.

 **Her skeleton will lie in the Chamber forever.**

****1047****

John was sitting in the Gryffindor common room between Seamus and Dean when Draco burst into the common room. "How'd you get in?" Dean asked curiously. But Malfoy didn't even pause to answer him. He only grabbed John's arm and hauled him to his feet. The Malfoy Heir was panting, hard. The gleaming in his eyes made him look slightly insane, and his entire face was flushed red.

"Sherlock!" Draco all but shouted, his normal grace and composure nowhere to be seen. "He's back. C'mon!" As soon as Mycroft had uttered his brother's name, John was already running towards the Fat Lady's portrait. Soon the four boys were tumbling out of the Gryffindor Tower together, running past other students with out caring who they pushed and shoved as Mycroft led the way to the Medical Wing.

As soon as the heavy wooden doors of the infirmary were in sight, John pulled ahead of the rest of the group and flung open the doors with a tad of unintentional magic. He saw Snape and Pomfrey hovering around the furthest bed, and John pumped his legs even faster. He was going so fast, that he very nearly rammed right into Madam Pomfrey, but he managed to stop at the last second, before grabbing hold of the side of the bed.

Sherlock was laying on his back, head turned towards John. His eyes were only barely open, but he looked so very amused. "…like stars…" he mumbled, his words slurring. He tried to sit up, elbows propping him up, but Poppy only clucked and gently forced him to lay back down. " _John_ " John took hold of Sherlock's hand, which felt so much colder than it should have. His eyes flickered past John, over his shoulders. "David. Sean." The two other Gryffindors laughed, half in relief half in honest amusement.

The corner of Sherlock's mouth twitched in a smile as Pomfrey and Snape stepped away to discuss further treatment of Sherlock's mind. A careful combination of potions would keep Sherlock awake until his magic had returned to a sufficient level, and they were sure that he'd have no relapses. For now, all that they could do was wait for Sherlock's magic to heal the boy on its own. Then Sherlock frowned. "Where's my brother?" he asked, confused. He was sure that's he'd seen Mycroft earlier.

Mycroft approached Sherlock's bed from the other side. "I was just getting your handler," Mycroft sniffed. He would have looked just like himself, if not for the pure emotion he was unable to hide on his face, and the haggardness that still lingered. "Now, Sherlock, just what trouble did you manage to get yourself into _this_ time?"

"It wasn't my _fault!_ " whined Sherlock.

"Than who's was it, mate?" asked Seamus. Sherlock frowned.

"I don't know," Sherlock admitted with a resentful twist of his lips. Dean and Seamus both looked very alarmed at hearing those words come out of his mouth and Sherlock sneered at them. "How am I _supposed_ to know? I've been locked up for god knows how long!"

"Locked up?" Mycroft demanded.

"In my mind palace," Sherlock said softly, letting his head fall back against his pillow. Reluctantly, Sherlock related what had happened from his point of view, which, admittedly, wasn't all that much. Sherlock complained to all of them that the past several months (and he was horrified to learn that it _had_ been several months) had been the most boring of his life and they better act more interesting than usual to make up for it. The three Gryffindors and Mycroft related what had happened _outside_ of Sherlock's head. Sherlock had trouble coming to terms with that what they were saying could be true. Especially when Mycroft summed it up quite neatly.

"You turned into a goldfish."

They did, however, censor certain parts of "Harry's" behavior, such as his apparent crush on Ginny, his discrimination of the Slytherins, and his borderline bullying of Hufflepuffs, Neville, and Collin.

They managed to successfully pull Sherlock's attention away from "Harry" when Dean accidentally mentioned Slytherin's Monster and the Chamber, which led to another round of question and answer. Sherlock grew increasingly somber when he was informed of the list of victims included Greg and Colin. "What is being done about the monster?" he inquired.

Draco and John exchanged a look. "The Ministry has been alerted," Mycroft told him. "Hagrid was arrested not too long ago, apparently somebody tipped them off that _he_ was the one who released the monster in the school. I even found some records condemning him for a similar string of attacks that happened over fifty years ago."

Sherlock would have spluttered in disbelief if he'd had the energy. " _HAGRID_?" he gasped. "B-but, he's… _Hagrid_."

Mycroft nodded solemnly. "Seeing as how the attacks didn't stop upon his incarceration, my Father promised to get Hagrid a Veritaserum trial. However, even if Hagrid does turn out innocent, that means the culprit is still at large. If he or she is not found soon…"

"They'll shut down the school…" Sherlock closed his eyes, wishing for the first time in a long time that he could fall asleep. "And you have no leads?"

"I have one," Mycroft said, now a bit more confident. "Thanks to Miss Granger." He moved to hand his brother the paper he'd pulled from Greg's palm. Sherlock narrowed his eyes, considering, but then shook his head. His brain hurt too much for him to try to read at the moment.

Understanding, Mycroft simply put it back into his pocket without another word. "Evidence has lead me to believe that the monster is a basilisk, roaming around by way of pipes."

Sherlock frowned, wearily searching through his mental files. His knowledge on things like basilisks were, unfortunately, rather lacking. He'd been remedying his lack of knowledge about the supernatural as much as he could when he came to Hogwarts, but there were so many obscure things to discover and learn about magic, magical creatures and lost arts that he still had a long way to go on nearly any given subject. On one hand, that thought thrilled Sherlock because it meant that he didn't even have to grow bored. There was just _so much to learn_. On the other, it was incredibly annoying because when something like this came up he had almost no information to draw on like he could for mundane muggle cases.

"I'd thought that basilisks killed their prey with their gaze?" Sherlock asked, confused.

"They do, brother mine," Mycroft assured him. "However, the cat was standing in a puddle of water. Creevy was peering through his camera. The Hufflepuff was standing behind Nearly-Headless Nick and Gremione was holding a compact mirror she borrowed from one of her dormmates."

Sherlock idly traced shapes on the back of John's hand with his thumb as he chewed this over. "But why would indirect visual contact cause _petrification_? Wouldn't it make more sense for it to simply cause paralysis?"

"Petrification is the magical form of paralysis," Mycroft informed him. This lead to a debate about the logic and science behind that that quickly scared off Dean and Seamus, who promised to spread the word to Gryffindor that Sherlock was back and healthy. The two Holmes brothers barely noticed them leave, while John gave them a bright, happy farewell.

Severus and Poppy, who had gone into the Mediwitch's office to discuss Sherlock's further treatment out of earshot of the children, returned with Madam Pomfrey bearing a flat, rectangle pad of pressed herbs which gave off a strong, sweet smell. She then wetted it with a vial of clear, scentless potion before draping it over Sherlock's forehead. Relief was immediate. His muscles relaxed into boneless goo and the throbbing of his sore brain began to wane.

"This is a potion typically used to treat those who have suffered the Cruciatus Curse," Poppy told Sherlock as she handed him yet another vial. "Drink it all, and no complaining about the taste. I'd simply vanish it into your gut like the others, but that renders this particular potion useless, I'm afraid."

"For my nerves," Sherlock guessed before pouring it down his throat, wincing a bit at the literal crappy flavor. Madam Pomfrey confirmed that as she cast a spell to check his core. A weak, pulsating white orb appeared above his chest. John absently batted at it, feeling the slight warmth it gave off when his hand passed through it.

"It's very pretty," he commented. "Prettier than I'd expect yours to be." Sherlock pouted at him.

"I'll bet Mycroft's looks like a lump of lard," Sherlock sniffed. "And yours like a lumped-up jumper." John smiled at him humorously.

"Do behave," Severus drawled from where he was leaning against the wall, looking decidedly weary. "I shall come back to ensure you are still resting in a few hours. I have _other_ students to attend to. Try not to get into any more mischief before then."

"So, _after_ is all right?"

"Brat," was all the Potion's Master said as he swept passed the students. "Poppy," he said to the Mediwitch in a low voice. "I don't believe those two will cause you any trouble."

Pomfrey rolled her eyes. "Severus, I'm not so cold hearted as to separate those three just after they've finally been reunited. Go tend to your snakes, I'll watch these three." Snape nodded his thanks before exiting. Poppy turned back to the bed at the end of the row, where John had curled up next to Sherlock on the mattress. The smallest Weasley boy's golden head was resting on Sherlock's chest, their hands still entwined. Draco Malfoy had pulled over a chair as well as his thick textbook and was reading out loud from it in a smooth, articulate voice with practiced ease.

Poppy smiled to herself. Despite how horrid the school year had been thus far, with all the petrification and the threat of Hogwarts closing her gates for good, she felt as she looked at the three children that maybe, just maybe, they had made it past the worst of the storm.

******1047******

It took a rather long while to discover just who had been taken. In fact, it took such a long time that many began to write it off as a rather unsavory prank. However, the teachers did not brush it aside as quickly. When Severus returned to the dungeons to discover that a new message had been scrawled across a wall in blood, he had immediately called for all of his snakes to return at once to the common room for a tally count.

Sprout, Flitwick and McGonagall, who had all already been informed, did likewise. The Slytherins were second quickest to assemble, aside from the Hufflepuffs who were mostly already gathered in their dorm out of fear and the staunch belief of "safety in numbers", shepherded by the concerned fourth year, Cedric Diggory.

At first, when one Ms. Weasley was the last of his snakes to show, Snape had irritably chalked it up to her hanging around the Gryffindor second years, as she had been want to do. So, he'd sent a patronus up to Minerva in Gryffindor Tower, asking for confirmation of the little girl's presence.

She had sent back her own to the negative.

Now concerned, he waited impatiently for another twenty minutes. Then he told the prefects to not allow anyone to leave to common room, before he left, his robes flying about in a flurry with every step he took.

"Point me Ginerva Weasley," his wand spun in his hand…and kept spinning. She was near, but no where that the wand could pinpoint. Severus felt his stomach drop. Sweet Merlin, they only just got Sherlock back. Now Ginerva was missing? In the back of his mind, Severus guiltily thought _better her than the Little Weasley_ , but he ruthlessly shoved that aside. No matter how much he considered John to be his responsibility, Ginerva _was actually_ one of his snakes.

He called for a gathering of the professors and his worst fear was confirmed. All students were accounted for…except Miss Weasley. Her parents were sent for, and Minerva wearily gave the other Weasley boys permission to break the news to their youngest brother. Severus turned away from the crying, worried faces of the red headed clan, listening as they disappeared in the direction of the infirmary.

They simply couldn't catch a break, could they?

****1047*****

Sherlock looked up from where he'd had his face buried in John's hair, listening to his brother speculate about the Monster of Slytherin, when the infirmary doors burst open for the second time that evening. In rushed the three other Weasley boys present at Hogwarts. Sherlock had been expecting his self-proclaimed "adopted brothers" at some point that evening, but not like this. Not with tear-stained faces. Not with tense, angry expressions. Not with fear etched into every muscle. Something had happened.

"Percy?" Sherlock asked, knowing that the oldest would give him the facts the straightest. However, he was shocked into silence when the sixth year only flung his arms around him, drawing John and Sherlock both into his arms, close to his chest with a heart wrenching, strangled sound. "Percy?" Sherlock asked again, his voice now muffled by the front of Percy's clothing.

The boy didn't answer as the twins dejectedly leaned against their brother, until the four of them were in some sad parody of a group hug. "What's happened?" Mycroft demanded.

"The Monster"

"Took Ginny"

The twins answered in a hollow voice. Sherlock and John froze, while Mycroft adopted a thinking pose. "When?" he asked. The twins looked up at each other, and seemed to come to a decision. "The message got put up an hour or so ago," said George.

"But we only just found out who exactly it was a few minutes ago"

"They called everyone to their common rooms,"

"And she was the only one we couldn't find."

"Message? Where? And what did it say?" Sherlock asked, still squished with John in Percy's embrace. Percy answered in lieu of the twins this time.

He sniffled once, and then was all business. He released John and Sherlock, but not before tenderly brushing his fingers through Sherlock's hair. "Another message written in blood," he said tensely. " _Her skeleton will lie in the chamber forever_ " he quoted. "People are saying some Puffs found it on the second floor."

"Where Mrs. Norris was," John said, contemplatively. His intestines were tied up in knots out of worry for his little sister. He forced himself to act as though they were on any regular case, however, knowing it was Ginny's best chance. As John was thinking along these lines, Sherlock unsteadily slid out of bed.

"What are you doing?" Mycroft said frantically. "You're supposed to be resting!"

"And Ginny is supposed to be safe!" Sherlock retorted. "Are you going to help me, or not?" Mycroft hesitated before nodding.

"We're with you too," said Percy.

"No way we're"

"Loosing another Weasley" agreed the twins.

As one they slid passed the ghosts and portraits monitoring the halls, out of pure luck, they managed to not run into any professors. "Where are we going?" John asked Mycroft, who was leading the way.

"The monster is somewhere in the sewer system, which is where all of the pipes in the castle are connected to," he answered quietly as they ran. "So, the entrance to the chamber is somewhere with access to the sewers."

"A Bathroom," Sherlock caught on, though he was wheezing slightly, stumbling a bit from exhaustion. Percy, with a strong, practiced arm, slung Sherlock up into their air and onto his back without breaking stride. It was actually a rather impressive move. Sherlock normally would have bristled by this treatment, but at the moment he as simply too relieved to be off of his feet. He still felt very drained.

"How do we know"

"Which one?" Fred and George asked as they ducked beneath the sight of a portrait, upon hearing them the man in the picture called out for whoever was their to reveal themselves, but they ignored him as they continued on, nearly to the hall where the message had been written.

"I'm assuming the one nearest to where the first attack took place," Mycroft said. "Not only is it fairly central to the attacks, but it's also one that literally no one ever uses."

"Why?" asked John.

"Myrtle," it was Percy who answered. "Rather annoying ghost. Trust me, you learn to ignore her fairly early on. She's in the girl's toilet on the second floor."

The skidded around the corner, and pounded across the stone floor, footsteps echoing in the empty hall as they drew closer to the bathroom. "That…actually perfect" said Sherlock.

"Yes," agreed Mycroft. "Proof that the monster was physically in the bathroom. Face-to-face visual contact, instant dead girl left to haunt the loo forever. Not only that, but rarely used pipes."

"Also," smiled Sherlock. "A witness."

John reached the door first, and opened it only to be blasted in the face by a jet of water. "GET OUT!" screamed a whiney, annoying, high pitched voice. "NO BOY'S ALLOWED! GET OUT! GET OUT!"

"Myrtle!" reprimanded Percy.

"Please," interrupted Mycroft will all the Malfoy charm he could muster. "We need your help." Obviously not used to any kind of positive attention, Myrtle paused and looked down at Draco Malfoy, noting his attractive features and noble aire. She giggled and Sherlock may have thrown up in his mouth just a little.

"With what?" she asked, still sounding rather whiney despite trying to look flirtatious.

"My friend was taken by the monster that lives in here," Mycroft explained. "Would you tell me what you saw in here? Anything at all will help! Please, I'm really worried about them."

Myrtle thought about this for a second, completely oblivious to the fact that all five boys were quickly losing patience. Luckily, before one of the Gryffindors could do something Gryffindorish, such as chucking a bar of ancient, dusty soap at her head, Myrtle decided to answer.

"You're not going to try to kill it, are you?"

"And what if we are?" George asked, somewhat angrily. Myrtle rolled her eyes.

"Because you'll all die," she said simply. Then she smiled. "If you do die," she told Mycroft "you're welcome to share my toilet."

With a perfectly straight face, Mycroft replied. "An absolutely enticing offer. Please, Myrtle, tell me how _you_ died."

The whiney ghost looked rather pleased. "Oh, it was _horrible_ " she crooned with a smile. "I was in that stall there, crying because that dreadful Olive Hornbey was making fun of my glasses, when all of a sudden I heard a boy talking. But he wasn't speaking normally at all. He was speaking some made up language, and it was rather annoying to listen to. So, I opened up the stall to tell him to _Go Away_."

"And then," Percy prompted when she stopped talking.

"And that's when I saw it…great big yellow eyes" she said dramatically.

"And then" the twins said, now shaking with restrained anger and frustration.

"I died"

Mycroft nodded. "Luckily, I know how to kill it. So, my dear, if you simply tell me how to go after it, I'll exact revenge for you."

Myrtle gasped, clasping a hand over her translucent chest. "You would? Oh!"

She made a strange, moaning sound that made all of the boys present wince, and did a loop in mid air before plunging straight down into the seat of a toilet, splashing water everywhere. Then, her head reappeared in front of one of the faucets at the round sink. "This is where the boy was standing, but I don't know how he went down."

"Down?" asked Sherlock as he slid off of Percy's back, who seemed reluctant to let go of him. Myrtle only nodded, much tot heir irritation. The two Holmes brothers examined the sink. The only difference was the fact that there were tiny snakes carved around the spout on that particular faucet, whereas none of the others had such a design. There was no secret switch or rune to read aloud and activate. Mycroft growled in vexation.

Eyes not leaving the tiny stone snakes, Sherlock asked his brother " _Any ideas one how to get this thing to open_?" Then he jumped backwards as the sink began to vibrate and rumble. He turned to his brother with a smile, thinking that Mycroft had done something clever, but then frowned upon seeing the shock on Draco's face.

"What?" Sherlock asked.

"Yeah," said George.

"My thoughts exactly" added Fred.

"Back to that later," said Percy as he pulled out his wand and put protection charms on his brothers and Mycroft. The way is open" he said and, indeed, the sink had slid away to reveal a long, filthy tunnel like hole in the ground. "Let's go get Ginny. She's already been down there a long time." John nodded in agreement and made to jump down first.

Percy grabbed his arm and pulled him back, "wait!" he warned. Then he cast a cleaning charm on the walls of the hole, then a charm to decrease friction. With that he threw himself into the hole, sliding down it quickly. After a few seconds they heard him cast a cushioning charm. Then Percy called back up that it was safe.

The twins went next, first Fred, then George. Draco followed. "Ready?" asked Sherlock with a weak smile. "Could be dangerous…"

John took Sherlock's hand. And together, they jumped.

******1047******

Arthur and Molly Weasley had been enjoying a rare day in when the owl came. Arthur had smiled, recognizing it as a Hogwarts owl. He was hoping for some news about Sherlock, as all of the previous letters had been somewhat lacking of updates concerning his raven-haired child. To be quite honest, he was growing concerned.

Thinking that the owl was from Percy (The twins always wrote their letters on colorful muggle parchment or hexed their owls into flashing various vibrant hues) Arthur called Molly in saying "Mollywobbles! Owl for us!"

Molly had scurried in, drying her hands on her apron as she's just been washing up the kitchen. "What's it say, dear?" she asked as Arthur turned it over. Then he frowned. There was the Hogwarts Wax seal on the front. That meant that a teacher had sent it.

"I'm not sure," he said as he slid a finger under the flap, popping the seal up. He pulled out the letter and felt his heart stutter as he found that there was written on the parchment only two words and a signature.

 ** _"_** ** _Come quickly ~Severus Snape"_**

******1047*******

At the bottom of the hole it was dark, the only light coming from their wands which they had lit the moment their feet touched the floor. It was filthy and scummy water was up to their ankles. The boys paid it no mind, not even the normally prissy Mycroft. In fact they explored this new dungeon with single minded determination to find Ginny until they stumbled upon an enormous fifty-foot snake skin.

"Pretty safe to say that the basilisk theory has been confirmed" George joked weakly.

"What?" asked Fred sarcastically. "No. That obviously belongs to a flobber worm."

John would have forced a laugh at his brothers, but just then, a jet of magic blasted into the wall behind them. They all five lunged away from where the spell had hit the chamber wall, leaving a crater behind. They stared into the darkness, looking for the source of the spell, but their eyes couldn't make out anything in the low light of the Chamber. Mycroft picked up his wand, which he had dropped in the commotion. But before he could light a _lumos_ another blast his hid hand and he cried out loudly, in pain.

The chamber gave an alarming crumbling sound, that was louder than thunder. Rocks and stone and rubble came raining down on their heads, dust flying into their eyes and mouths. They coughed violently, covering their faces with their robes to prevent the most of it from getting into their lungs and noses. Great giant boulders crashed into the water making waves, some big enough to knock the smaller boys off their feet and even Percy had trouble staying upright.

When the dust cleared, the eldest Weasley present did a quick head check and gave a small cry of anguish. "SHERLOCK!"

"Here!" the reply was faint, as though it were coming from….

******1047*****

….. on the other side of the wall of rubble, Sherlock felt fear twist his stomach. He'd only just gotten his family back. And now he was alone again. In the dark. Except now he could hear the quiet but frantic voices of his brothers and John. Sherlock called back to them once, but then summoned his wand to his hand. His body relaxed as his recognized the magic that thrummed between his body and the instrument.

" _Lumos"_ he breathed, and sighed deeply when the darkness was pushed back just a bit. Forcing aside all of his worries and feelings, all of the aches, pains and exhaustion of his transport, Sherlock focused his everything on the case at hand. "I'm going to find Ginny" he called back to John before he took off running.

The trajectory of the spell's light had come from this angle, Sherlock thought to himself. Following that, he saw splash outlines on the otherwise dry wall, indicating that the attacker had run down the left of the labyrinth Sherlock now found himself in. Before long, Sherlock was rewarded with a most magnificent sight.

A large chamber had opened up out from the narrow tunnel. A huge statue of a willowy man stood in the center. He looked to be very severe and stern, probably about mid forties, knowing the way that wizards age. Slytherin the Original, unless Sherlock missed his guess which he doubted. The water level was lower here, but there was the tell tale smell of rotting flesh. This is where the monster, the basilisk, must nest.

"Harry Potter" said a smooth voice. Sherlock whipped around to face the one who had addressed him. "Or, you prefer Sherlock, don't you." It was a boy, probably around Percy's age, maybe a tad older. Infinitely better looking though. His hair was styled much like Mycroft had done his hair in their first life, though the coloring matched Sherlock's. His eyes were a fetching forget-me-not blue, and his skin was almost artfully pale. The boy smiled a white, even smile, tilting his head in a way that Sherlock was certain he must have practiced in a mirror. It made him look almost _too_ agreeable. However, there was a careful method to his every movement. Calculated. And the boy's eyes gleamed with intelligence.

He was, in short, somewhat interesting.

"You have me at a disadvantage," Sherlock drawled, lowering his wand with the tip pointing lazily at the floor. However, his empty hand was ready with a fistful of magic, ready to be flung at the new contender who wore robes of a slightly different fashion from what Hogwarts students wear, albeit with a highly recognizable Hogwarts crest over his heart and a Slytherin tie about his neck.

"Of course," smiled the boy. "My name is Tom. Tom Riddle, pleasure to meet you. I must say, I've heard quite a bit about you."

"I wish I could say the same," said Sherlock. "But that's of little importance. I can tell by the way you hold your shoulders that you weren't born into nobility but you've come to emulate the mannerisms of those around you who have. However, I can assume from the shape of your nose as well as the structure of your cheeks and chin that you are probably descended from nobility from at least one, if not both, sides of your family somewhere down the line. Raised poor, but expectant of a greater life style as is obvious from the good quality of your outer robes but the sad state of your shoes and trousers which are mostly hidden. Their kept in good shape, but it's obvious that your trousers are two sizes too short and your shoes are all but worn through. Both are held together by willpower and magic, aren't they." Tom looked flabbergasted, but Sherlock wasn't done.

"I can feel the magic coming off of you, except it's tightly restrained. You've perfected the art of acting to just a great degree that even your magic pretends to be something it's not. It's dark, and wild but you've managed to make the barest, tiniest wisps at the very end protrude out the greatest, so those weaker than you who try to taste your magic without your approval feel only a vague grey, disciplined energy. Therefore, you are powerful, you know you are powerful, but are hiding your potential from people of equal or greater power for your benefit while letting some who are weaker feel your true power _also_ for your benefit.

"However, there is something off about your magic. Namely that _it's not flowing_. The magic of all living wizards is a constant stream of sparking energy that never ceases and yet yours seems almost frozen. No one, not even Dumbledore could control their magic to that degree which leads me to the conclusion that _you_ Tom Riddle, are not alive. Therefore you must be dead, but you are obviously not a ghost. You're holding Ginny's wand. Ghosts are intangible."

"Remarkable," breathed Tom Riddle. Sherlock paused, just for a moment, remembering a time long ago, in the back of a cab when _another_ interesting person had smiled and called him "Brilliant" rather than "freak". Nevertheless, Sherlock continued.

"Ginny's wand, why are you holding Ginny's wand? More than that, why would it work for you? Her wand is arcadia, it wouldn't perform that well for just anybody. This means that it must think you are Ginny, but the only way to fake a magical signature is by absorbing the magic of the person who's signature you are faking.

In short, you are a dead-not-ghost which Ginny's magic inside of you, extremely powerful with a gift for manipulation, from a humble beginning but aspirations and _expectations_ of greatness due to nobility in your bloodlines. Ergo, you are not only the Heir of Slytherin, Mr. Riddle, but you are a horcrux of none other than the Dark Lord Voldemort."

Applause.

Tom Riddle had started applauding him with a slow smile spreading across his face. "Truly" he said. "Ginny did not lie when she spoke of your greatness, Sherlock." His face was nearly shining with happiness. "Never in all of my life have I ever met someone who's cleverness matched my own. And now, here you stand _exceeding_ it. I'd say we would be great together, but we're already great, you and I. Aren't we."

"We are," Sherlock agreed. "But I have people who make me better."

Tom rolled his eyes. "Yes, Ginny has told me about John."

"But did she tell you that he agreed to go wherever I follow? That he agreed to love me even if I decide to become a Dark Lord myself." Tom's eyes narrowed, not out of suspicion, but intrigue. "What about how he and I together have decided to support the Dark and all it stands for." Sherlock thought about what he just said. " _Most_ of what it stands for."

Tom actually laughed a bit at that. Quietly, but honestly laughed. "Really? You, the Boy-Who-Lived who managed to defeat me in infancy. How did that happen, by the way?"

"Blood ritual sacrifice. For some reason, you gave my mother the chance to save her own life. Best I can figure is this activated a ritual she set up previous to your attack. I've analyzed it since. Done tests and experiments. To be quite honest, Aeldin, I can't imagine how I survived otherwise."

"What did you just call me?"

Sherlock ignored him. "Anyway, I've actually come to make a proposition."

"And what is that, little Gryffindor?"

Sherlock frowned at him. "Ginny told you about me and John you say? Then you know that I…that he is mine. And that Ginny is his. And that makes her mine too. I wont let you take what's mine Tom. Let Ginny live, and I'll aid your cause. Resurrect you to full power and end the war once and for all. If she dies, however. I will destroy your horcrux which I'm willing to bet is that little book lying over there."

Sherlock looked over to Ginny's still, pale form that was laying on the ground some ways to the right of them. Her red hair was arrayed on the ground around her head like a halo, and her limbs where haphazardly twisted in uncomfortable looking positions. In one of her hands was clutched a small, black book.

Tom gave a helpless smile. "Despite how clever you are, Sherlock. There are a few things wrong with that."

"Oh? Do tell."

" Killing Ginerva is what will give me my body back. And even if it didn't, you can't stop me."

"Basilisk venom could, and I bet I know where I could find some. Failing that, Fiend Fire would do the job. I've never cast it before, but I know someone who has. I could just take the information from them and, honestly, how hard could it be?"

Tom was no longer smiling. He didn't look angry, just pensive. Considering. "And tell me, Sherlock. Just how would you give me back my body?"

"It's simple, Thomas," Sherlock smiled. "I possess another one of your horcruxes and a Philospher's stone. Using these two thing could summon the remainder of your horcrux soul pieces to the largest chunk of soul—you—and all that I would need to do is create a homunculus body to put your soul in after. I've actually already made a few, for experiments you understand. I think I've gotten quite good at them. Though, the first few looked like troll babies."

Tom started to laugh again, doubled over. All at once, he was no longer as solid looking as before. To his right, Ginny suddenly took a gasping breath, though she did not stir. The wand dropped _through_ Tom's hand. "All right, Sherlock. I'm listening. She won't die just yet. Convince me."

"No."  
"No?"

"No. So far, all I've told you is what _you_ would gain from joining _me_. In all reality, I don't give a flying fig about Ginny. I just don't want my John to be sad. What can _I_ gain from _having_ you join us."

"Us?"  
"John and I, obviously."

Tom, held his chin in hand, tapping a foot on the floor as he thought. "Hmm, Ginny said you're fond of animals…" he said slowly. "All animals?"

"…maybe…"

"How do you feel about giant, people-eating snakes?"


	33. Fact and Fusion

**Sorry about my break in writing taking so long. Between having my first job, and trying to learn how to adult until classes start up again in the fall. On top of everything else, I've been really uncertain as to how I want to continue this story. I hope you will forgive me if this chapter is a little sloppy. Thanks for sticking with me.**

I also apologize if it looks a little different than normal. If it does, let me know in the comments and I'll try to fix it for next time. But my computer has been buggy, so I wrote this chapter on my phone.

Arthur and Molly Weasley had been summoned to Hogwarts countless time before. Not so much when it was just dear Bill in school, but then Charlie went and he was forever running off into the Forbidden Forest in search of dragons and goblins.

Percy, gem that he was, only caused them to get a single summon in his academic career. And that had been because he'd stayed up so many nights his second year, studying, forgetting to eat for so long, that he collapsed and the Mediwitch had reccomended that he be sent home for a few days to calm down and recuperate.

The twins, on the other hand, were an entirely different beast. Their first year at Hogwarts the Weasley parents had been summoned so many times that by Easter break students would wave cheerfully as they made their way to the Headmaster's office, not surprised by their presence in the slightest.

Ron and Ginny, by comparison, had been angels. Though Arthur had always known it was only a matter of time before a summons came. Even so, when he saw the now familiar sight of the Hogwarts Owl a small pang of worry wiggled in his stomach.

When he saw the brief message written, his stomach dropped like a stone.

Come at Once ~Severus Snape

That was all.

Neither parent had made the trip to the Potionmaster's Office quicker, assuming the message to have been about Ginny, seeing as how she was the only Slytherin in the family. But the office was empty save for a lone, bubbling cauldron.

There didn't seem to be any students about, either, which felt so wrong that the fear in Arthur's gut intensified several times over. They tried the next most likelt place, even though the very idea of it made them feel ill: the Mediward.

Poppy, to Arthur's dismay, didn't seem surprised to see them at all. The little woman was sitting in a chair beside an empty bed, beds of petrified students all around her. She looked angry and tired and worried, her fists were clenched in her robe skirts and her face was drawn and pinched.

"Mister and Missus Weasley," she greeted them. "I-I rather think you should see the Headmaster." This was one of the very last things Arthur had been hoping to hear her say. Seeing the Headmaster meant only very good or very bad. And from the look on her face, there was almost no chance of their summoning being for anything even remotely good.

Once there, the gargoyle guarding the steps sprang out of the way without prompting, only confirming that the Professor was already up there, waiting for them.

The climbed upwards with trepidation, only to find themselves in a room with the Headmaster and his Heads of Houses. The Headmaster sat gravely behind his wide desk, Minerva standing stiffly at attention behind his shoulder.

Snape sat slouched in a deep chair, his head in his hands. Madame sprout was worrying her hands in a corner, muttering under her breath. When she saw the Weasleys, she gave a little cry and held her hands to her heart. Molly made to go over to her and offer comfort, but with a quick hand raised Arthur prevented her from doing so.

Flitwick paced back and forth across the office in quick, small strides. Arthur and Molly looked to Dumbledore questioningly, and the old wizard sighed in dismay.

" ..It pains me to bring you here, to bring you such bad news. But your daughter Ginerva has--" Dumbledore cut himself off, for the first time Arthur could recall, the Headmaster seemed to be lost for words. Dumbledore looked first to Severus and then to Minerva, but both of his associates seemed to be just as at a loss as him.

Unexpectedly it was Sprout who ended up taking the lead. "She's missing," she said quietly.

Immediately Molly erupted into questions and frantic assumptions. Arthur on the other hand could barely form a sentence. While Molly was asking where they had looked and how long she had been gone, Arthur could only wonder if the strange things that had been happening on and off all year could have been foreshadowing this new tragedy. If there could have been some way to foresee and prevent what had happened. And most of all, if Harry had had anything to do with it.

"Where is Lockheart?" Molly demanded. "What does he say?"

Severus Snape scoffed and rolled his eyes which may have been one of the more surprising and alarming parts of what was going on. Minerva, with an angry look on her face and a barely restrained tone of voice turned to address Molly. "I believe there are things which we should inform you of" she bit out.

*1047*

"This isn't working," John said in disgust as he gave up trying to remove the rubble. "You're not even trying to help!" he accused Mycroft angrily.

The blonde aristocrat had walked a couple feet away, and was sitting croslegged on the filthy, grimy floor with his eyes closed. "I am helping," he said in a level tone of voice. "I'm just not so stupid as to believe I can move those several tons of rock with my bare hands."

"So then what are you doing?" Asked Fred.

In lieu of an answer, Mycroft only closed his eyes once more. Redheaded boys were just about to snap at him angrily, when a silvery pool of magic again to collect around Mycroft's legs.

The magic then slid in a thin ribbon over to the pile of debris. Like a tiny snake it wrapped around the rubbish filling in the cracks with tiny glowing strands. Percy and the twins took a few shocked steps back and watched with gaping mouths as the magic began to expand creating larger gaps between the larger pieces of rubbish and pushing the smaller completely to the side.

As they watched, the magic extended upwards making the rock and stone tumble to the side until it formed a tall pillar the width of a pencil. Then it widened, making the debris pile grown as it was forced apart. Within moments, a doorway-like opening had been created by Mycroft's magic.

"Go," Mycroft grunted. The Weasleys turn back to him and saw that he was straining under the mental pressure of maintaining the doorway. "Go quickly, please. I'll hold as long as I can."

With barely another glance in Mycroft's direction, John flew through the opening with his brothers on his tail. Their feet splashed in the shallow puddles on the ground, their footsteps echoing eerily. The tunnels all seem to run in one direction and so John had hope that they would find Sherlock buy running randomly down one. This theory was soon proven correct, as they suddenly found themselves in a reasonably well-lit chamber.

In the distance two figures were laying on the ground at the feet of a tall statue. Neither were moving.

Screaming out their names frantically, Percy sprinted towards where Ginny and Sherlock were laying on the ground. To their great relief they were both breathing, and neither appeared to have a scratch on them.

What was odd however, was the plain black notebook laying on the ground beside them. It was open to a random page, blank. There seemed to be blood on the ground, though it did not appear to belong to either child.

The twins gently knelt beside their black haired brother, who was on his stomach. It looked like he had collapsed forward. They turned him over with tender hands, and frowned when they saw his forehead. It was bleeding and appeared to have been rubbed raw. There wasn't much blood but the fact that there was blood at all on such an old scar made them exchange worried looks with their elder brother.

"Let's get them back up to the Mediward," Percy took charge, scooping up his sister in his arms and leaving the twins to cradle Sherlock between them. "Quickly before Malfoy exhausts himself. "

It wasn't until they had reunited with Draco, that John spoke what was on all of their minds. " Sherlock wasn't supposed to fall asleep."

*1047*

Madam Poppy just about strangled the children when they reappeared in the Mediward. But she was too overcome with joy and relief at their safety, so she let them all the severe scolding and pepper-up potions all around.

Percy laid his sister down on a bed with all the care of a good big brother. He smoothed out her flaming red hair and sat down beside her, gingerly, as Madam Pomfrey wiggled her wand clucking like a hen.

"Poor Sherlock has gone through the wringer," she said, disapproving. "Just what were you boys thinking?" she demanded. "This child was already in a very fragile place, on the brink of relapse and you think it's a good idea to take him on a rescue mission?"

Percy and Mycroft both guiltily shied away from looking her in the eyes, though the twins unabashedly met her gaze. "Ginny was in trouble," said Fred.

"And we couldn't have stopped Sherlock if we tried, besides," finished his twin with a final nod. Poppy agitatedly huffed, bonking the both of them lightly on the head before healing up a couple scrapes and bruises on them.

John didn't hear a word they were saying. At the moment, his entire world consisted of Sherlock and nothing else. The thought that Sherlock might wake up as Harry again endlessly circled through his mind. John didn't know if he'd be able to take it, losing Sherlock again so suddenly after having him back so briefly.

He nearly jumped out of his robes when the doors slammed open. His parents came tearing in, in the form of redish blurs.

Molly went directly to Ginny's side, her chest heaving and face flushed. "What's wrong with her? When'd she get back?" Poppy tried to shoo her off a little bit, so that she could better get to her patient, but Molly refused to budge an inch until she got her answers.

"I don't know!" screeched Pomfrey. "All I know is that these two children need medical attention and you're preventing me from doing my job!"

"As their mother, I deserve to know!"

"And as human beings they deserve treatment!"

Arthur stepped passed the quarreling women to lean over Sherlock, whose forehead was still very much red. Dumbledore strode in behind the couple, a contemplative look on his face.

"Boys," he looked over his strange, half moon glasses at them. "I think you should share with us exactly what happened to the six of you, so that we may better understand how to help Mr. Potter and Ms. Weasley."

John still wasn't responding to anything or anyone that wasn't Sherlock. Mr. Weasley put a comforting hand on his smallest son's shoulder. Draco refused to answer, not trusting Dumbledore. The twins were still seething at Madam Pomfrey and had a deep seated mistrust in school figures. So that left Percy to explain his side of what happened, though he was prudent enough to leave out how Mycroft had used his magic in such a way, and the fact that Sherlock spoke in parseltongue.

"The Chamber of Secrets," Dumbledore raised an eyebrow. "A secret that Hogwarts herself has kept under wraps for centuries...was just left standing open you say?"

Percy shuffled his feet, not meeting Dumbledore's eyes. "Yyyeeeeees" he said slowly. "J-just standing wide open." The adults stood in disbelief, so the twins nodded in agreement.

"Exactly what happened."

"Just like that."

"But how did Harry defeat the dark article that was possessing her?" Molly asked, still looking at her daughter. "We know he's gifted, but he's just a little boy. And look at the state he's in now."

"We don't know, mum," George shook his head.

"He ran ahead when the ceiling collapsed," Fred added.

"A pity you didn't take the notebook with you," Dumbledore said archly. "Considering that the Chamber closed behind you." Percy gulped audibly. Getting out had been an adventure and a half, involving putting antigravity charms on all of them as well as Sticky Charms to their hands. As soon as they'd climbed out, the sinks had slid back into their original position, as though they had never moved in the first place.

"Odd, isn't it," Malfoy commented blandly.

*1047*

Aeldin was thrown backwards by the great wave of pearlecent magic. The energy seeped into his tatter of a soul, healing and filling it up, soothing the frayed edges like a balm. It carried him for several moments, and then it began to settle itself into a steady, flowing river running all through Sherlock's mind.

Aeldin watched as, almost immediately, the palace began to fix itself. The soul piece had his breath stolen away by how elaborate and beautiful Sherlock's mind palace was. He longed to explore every room, wander ever hallway and bask in the light pouring in from the many, many windows.

After years of solitude and boredom, it was like he'd finally found Nirvana. Aeldin eased himself from the magic flow, feeling stronger than he had since his death, probably even before that, and landed lithely on the pristine tiles below.

He spun in a 180, mouth agape and shamlessly impressed. There was no one to judge him here anyway and he'd never seen a place so beautiful. The windows occasionally flashed with memories of sunsets, of stars, of unexplained explosions, of fire, of falling snow and clear blue sky.

Aeldin ran to the nearest door with the glee of the small child he was never really allowed to be, and he tried the knob. He laughed, bright and free, when the door opened easily.

Inside was a kitchen. The appliances shifted from high tech to old fashion to somewhere modestly in between. The colors changed and the sizes altered, sometimes a table would appear in the center and sometimes a dusty light fixture would come into existance over head.

"Sherlock darling," said a voice. Aeldin watched as a ghost-like visage walked into the room through a non-existent door. "Would you fetch the milk for me out of the fridge? And four or five potatoes as well. I want to surprise John with a meal when he gets home. Not everyday a man gets promoted!"

"He should have had the position to begin with," Aeldin found himself saying before a gentle guiding force lead him to the refrigerator to obey the old lady. For about an hour, he found himself making Shepherd's Pie with the old woman, his movements determined by an unseen hand. Aeldin could have disregarded it if he wanted to, played off script. But he knew instinctively that he was walking through Sherlock's memories...but...this woman was talking about John as though he were an adult.

A different John, then?

After a while, the images and kitchen changed. It became smaller and more full of random clutter. Various Christmas decorations were strewn about. A man who was well built with a soft, kind face stood giggling across from him. A glass of beer was held loosely in his fingers. He had sandy blonde hair with a light dusting of grey color at the roots. His eyes were brown and looked very warm. He wore a hideous green jumper with a red bauble stitched on the front, and soft looking flannel trousers with plaid print. A muggle, for sure.

Though Aeldin didn't feel disgust as he usually did when faced with a muggle. He assumed it was the memory at work, but he felt nothing but intense affection for this stranger. He knew this man in an instant.

"John" he said aloud.

"Sherlock," John answered still giggling.

"You're being ridiculous," Aeldin informed the memory ghost, taking a step forward until he was uncomfortably close to the man. John smiled at him.

"And you're being a grinch."

"Excuse me?"

"You're excused." John launched off into another bout of giggles. Aeldin sighed. "Cmon mate, it's Christmas and she's ill. Molly does so much for you, the least we can do is make her a batch of cookies. You're a chemist! How hard could it be?"

"I don't want to."

"Please?"

"No."

"Please?"

"No, John."

"Pretty, pretty please with some mistletoe on top?"

"You're drunk John, go to bed." Aeldin was getting mildly uncomfortable with how close John and Sherlock were getting to each other's faces.

"M not drunk," John slurred. "And y'know It'd mean the world to her. She loves you."

"Which is precisely why I shouldn't. I don't return those feelings, nor do I plan on doing so. Ever."

"Never love any body?"

"I didn't say that."

"Oooh, who is she then?"

"Go to bed, John."

The force tried to force Aeldin closer to John, but he'd had enough of...whatever that was. Instead he broke away and slipped out of the room, closing it behind him.

He tried to peice together some new hypothesis based on the information he'd just seen.

Fact: Sherlock is inordinately close to John for having only known him two years, and has been strangely close to the small Weasley for as long as Aeldin knew they knew each other.

Fact: Sherlock's mind is strangely developed for a 12 year old. Even a genius one, which Aeldin can attest to since he was a genius 12 year old once.

Fact: these memories were about John and Sherlock as adults.

Fact: they may not be memories

Fact: it would be strange, but not unthinkable, for Sherlock to have a room dedicated to domestic daydreams about him and John in the future in a kitchen, particuarily ones where they don't seem to be married.

Fact: he was going to need to have a long chat with Sherlock when they saw each other again.

Aeldin determinedly began striding towards the next door, smiling when it opened just as easily as the first.

Until then, he had some exploring to do.


	34. Empty Connections

**Goodness….**

 **Goodness Gracious….**

 **I-I'm so sorry, guys.**

 **Time just slips away, and I don't know where all of it's gone off to. I'm going to try to update more often, but then I always say that and never do…I'm sorry ToT**

 **To tell the truth, back when I left my thumbdrive at my old bible college ( I think I told you guys about that) it had my plans for where I wanted to take this story. Now that I've lost it, I just can't remember all that I had wanted to do! It's very frustrating and that alone deterred me from writing very much. In addition, I'm so bogged down with homework and my job, I kind of lose all motivation to write.**

 **Which is stupid, because writing is literally my favorite thing to do…**

 **I need to be more disciplined, so hopefully I can train myself and do better for you all's sake, my sake, and Sherlock's sake.**

 ** _BTW guysssss BTS got nominated for a Grammy and I'm so freaking proud!_**

 **Thanks for the reviews, they're my life blood**

 **~James**

Salazar found it hard to keep his eyes on the road.

The day was almost suspiciously pleasant; the weather was pleasant, the company was pleasant, his work load was pleasantly light and the crisp apple slices he and Godric were sharing between them were also pleasantly sour.

Something was going to go terribly, terribly wrong. He could feel it.

He didn't voice his concerns though, there was no need to worry Godric. Not that Godric would feel very worried. The incorrigible man-child would probably just laugh over any concern he felt for Salazar's sake, then proceed to make a fool of himself to sooth his friend's mind. No, there was no need to bring up his unease.

Salazar lazily flicked the reins against their horses' flanks with one hand as he reached for another apple slice with the other. Godric beamed at him, not pausing in his telling of some tale about their students, and helpfully opened the sack holding the snack wider.

"…but I _told_ them it wouldn't work! So imagine my surprise when _They_ ended up teaching _me_ something! I'm so angry, Sal! The book had it wrong! You see, this is why one must always experiment! From now on, I'm not believing anything until I see it happen for my own self! Imagine!"

"That's not so hard to imagine, Godric," Salazar said smoothly around a mouthful of apple, behaving in a rude, casual manner he only would around one Godric Gryffindor. "You're rather an idiot." Godric didn't protest, he only giggled and tossed a chunk of apple skin at him. Of course, it was one thing to say this, and another to think that Salazar actually thought so little of Godric. Afterall, it was Godric who ingeniously weaved together the protections for beloved Hogwarts. It was Godric who managed to form a pact with the nearby Mermish tribe. It was Godric who invented a translation spell powerful enough to teach himself parseltongue, just for the sheer novel joy of sharing something with Salazar and Salzar alone.

Godric was beaming at him. Salazar shook his head, but smiled back.

The wagon they were hauling bumped and jostled over the dips and rocks and mounds in the muggle-worn road they were traversing. Muffled clattering of the potion jars constantly reminded Salazar not to force the horses to move too quickly. A small coven of elderly-ish witches and wizards had moved into a near by village, after hearing that not one, nor two, but seven young children were all suspected to have magic.

Salazar and Godric were bringing supplies to the coven, as well as the hope to see at least some of the children for themselves. Originally, Helga was going to go on her own, but Godric had begged to be allowed to go in her stead, claiming that it would allow Helga to catch up on taking inventory of the medical wing –something she had been saying needed to be done for weeks now.

Of course, as was the case with anything Godric did, Salazar was roped along like a pack mule. Yet, Salazar couldn't honestly say that he minded all that much. Not when Godric spilled his water skin all over the both of them. Not when one of the horses tossed a shoe. Not when Godric got so into his story telling that he whacked Salazar in the face mid elaborate hand gesture. Not when Godric all but begged for a forgiveness that Salazar had already given. Not when Godric tenderly took Salzar's supposedly wounded face into his hands.

Not when Salazar gently pressed a kiss to his friend's lips, then smiled as he pushed Godric back down into his seat, reveling in the shocked expression he wore.

Not when Godric laughed so hard his eyes closed shut tightly and he fell against Salazar's chest.

Not when neither of them bothered moving apart for the rest of the ride to the village.

"You're an idiot" Salazar informed him.

"I'm your idiot." Godric confirmed.

o͡͡͡͡͡͡╮(ꐦ ꈨຶ皿ꈨຶ)╭**********************

Sherlock Holmes, for as far back as he could remember, had been painfully aware of empty spaces. No one understood what he meant by this, except Mycroft. But Mycroft, for some reason, was able to fill the emptiness with more emptiness which made him so _full_ of himself that it was nearly unbearable at times.

There was no way to _explain_ the emptiness because there wasn't anything to explain. How do you describe…empty? All he knew, was that there were spaces here and there which were supposed to be occupied with _something_ but weren't. It was a mystery. A mystery he'd been trying to solve for nearly all of his life.

There was an emptiness inside of him. He didn't mean this in an emotional sense, but very much physically. He imagined it felt much like what it would to lose an arm, or a leg. He _knew_ that he was missing something internally, and yet because it had never been there in the first place he had no idea what it was. At Mummy's request, he spoke to doctors and psychiatrists about it. Sociopath. Anti-Social Personality Disordered. Autistic. Dissociative. They gave him so many labels that eventually even Mycroft had come forward to put a stop to it.

Sherlock, for the life of him, couldn't get them to understand that while there was an emptiness in his mind –which he was forever seeking to fill with more and more knowledge—there was also a tangible feeling of _not-there-ness_ all over his body, just under his skin.

As he got older, he recognized that this empty feeling extended to the world around him as well. He first realized it when Mycroft went away to college. The empty feeling grew day by day by day by day until it _consumed_ him. Mummy, at first, thought it was cute…how much little Sherlock missed his big brother. But it went beyond _sentiment_ he could physically _feel_ the distance between himself and his brother. This time, however, not even Mycroft understood and assumed that Sherlock was just being needy.

Every day, his eyes would flick over his shoulders, or he'd reach out, thinking that someone was there. That someone _should_ be there, standing beside him. The air next to him seemed to be…cold.

From there, his life's quest became to just fill the _empty_. The horrible, horrible _empty_ that followed him like a ghost. Adrenaline. Mystery. Puzzles. Alcohol. Drugs. Drugs. Drugs. Drugs. Drugs. Mystery. Drugs. Excitement. Drugs. Music. Drugs. Drugs. Darkness. Alone. Empty. Drugs.

Anything to forget the empty.

Anything to fill the empty.

Anything to remember what it is that he forgot and made him empty.

Missing Memories. Missing self. Missing persons. Missing meanings. Missing ambitions. There was a whole life that belonged to _him_ that was just out of his reach and he didn't know what or why or how. Just that it was so.

Then Mycroft came back and forced him to stop doing the drugs, to get his life back into a semblance of order. Sherlock almost didn't bother, but then Mycroft threatened him. If Sherlock didn't take care of himself, Mycroft would leave again. This time, for good.

Too much empty. No. Not acceptable.

As much as he hated to admit it, Sherlock needed that special connection he had with his brother. He _needed_ Mycroft to be in his life and he _hated it_.

Resentment built a wall between the brothers, even when Mycroft did everything in his power to never ever again be too far away from his baby brother. His baby brother who, for some reason, was more sensitive to the empty than he was.

Then, a rookie named Lestrade took a strange interest in Sherlock. At first, Mycroft was protective and cautious. But the man seemed to regard Sherlock in nearly a paternal fashion. Sherlock, for some reason, seemed to give Lestrade more consideration than most people—not much mind you, but enough that Mycroft became involved personally.

And that is when Mycroft felt, for the first time, some of the _empty_ he, too, had always lived with, lessen. Just a little bit. Ebbing away when he first laid eyes on Gregory Lestrade, after he'd had some of his men "invite" the other man to a warehouse for a brief chat.

Lestrade was the first person he ever trusted his baby brother with, outside of himself and Mummy.

Sherlock, with Lestrade and Mycroft both watching out for him, began to get his life back together. He was able to drown out the remaining empty, most days, with cases.

And then John.

Just

John.

The empty inside him was there, but the air never seemed quite as cold after meeting John Hamish Watson.

ʕ灬￫ᴥ￩灬ʔ**********************

Severus didn't hold hands.

He can count on one hand the number of people who's hands he has willingly held: His mother, Lily Evans and Sherlock Potter.

With his mother, it was an obligation. As a young, young boy he would hold her hand when crossing the street. He held her trembling fingers in the echoing aftermath of his father's ranting fury. He squeezed her cold fingers goodbye in a near business-like fashion.

With Lily, each time had been an exhilarating pleasure. Every instance held in a precious corner of his brain. She held his hand the first time they saw the bright red Hogwart's express. She held his hand after many a run-in with Potter. She held his hand when he'd needed comfort sitting in the cold, empty Mediwing. He'd held her hand walking along the side of the Lake.

Sherlock—Severus mused as he sat beside the still, pale child gently cradling one tiny hand in both of his own—was a combination of the two.

It was his duty to, at times, firmly take hold of the brat such as during apparition, or when dragging the precocious, unwilling turd through a crowd, praying that the two of them wouldn't be separated. He couldn't remember all the times Severus had dragged Sherlock somewhere by one of his little hands. Most of the time, it wasn't entirely out of affection for the boy. Severus himself had been manhandled by his brute of a father harshly gripping his shoulders or forearms, leaving bruises. Severus would rather cut off his own hands than subject his own son to such brutality. No, it was worth the extra effort to stoop down a little bit and catch the brat's hand.

Yet…it was first an action Severus spared no thought for. It was second nature to hold Lily's boy by the hand. It was an active concern in his mind to not grip the child in an area which might cause unnecessary distress. Most times he barely thought about it. Sometimes, however, when he allowed his mind to slow and think, he would always feel warmed and somehow lucky that this remarkable child let himself be let by a man so marred as Severus Snape.

Sherlock snuffled in his sleep, small fingers gripping and relaxing Severus' own.

Sherlock was back home, where he belonged and where he would stay until the start of the next school year. The boy had no need to sit in class to take his exams, though Dumbledore and Minerva both insisted he still take them, so in the following weeks instructors sworn to secrecy would be coming and going to give the brat his final exams for second year.

While had had woken up since the _incident_ with the chamber, Sherlock had yet to recover to the point that he could do much more than glare or sneer, and complain of a pounding headache. Pomfrey had informed him that the child was suffering from _complete_ magical drainage. Not many wizards ever fell to this point, because the body has several fail safes to prevent such a thing, such as forcing the wizard to fall unconscious and stop them from using up all of their magic.

Until his magic restored itself, Sherlock would stay this still and quiet parody of himself. Severus found himself looking forward to when the imbecilic child would be well enough that he could return to the terror he had been the previous year.

He couldn't help keeping a silent vigil over the boy as he slept. Severus kept thinking back to earlier the previous year, when he had so casually patted Sherlock on the head, waving him off towards the Hogwart's Express. Why hadn't he stayed to make sure he got on the train safely? No one needed to know that he was there for Sherlock, specifically. But those few hours, between when Severus dropped him off and when he arrived at Hogwarts, had to be when his attacker had struck.

Severus looked down at his child. Never again, he thought.

ʕ； •`ᴥ•´ʔ*********************

Tom was bored.

A bit miffed.

Mostly, though, just bored.

After severing his connection with Ginny, and sealing a deal with Sherlock, he'd retreated back into his horcrux and—per Sherlock's instructions—counted to three hundred. Because of this, he was unsure who had come and what had happened, though he found himself trusting in the Gryffindor's word that he would come back for him.

The already weakened Gryffindor had _pushed_ every last bit of magic he could into Tom, rejuvenating him like Ginny was never able to. As soon as Sherlock's magic touched his soul, there was this tangible rightness which sunk into his very being. It was the whitest, purest magic Tom had ever tasted, and it was glorious. He'd have to ration himself, to let this magic last him until the start of the next semester.

When Sherlock would return.

When he would get his own body.

Until then, though. There wasn't much he could do. Sherlock had taken the basilisk, so there was no one left in the Chamber for him to speak to. Mostly, he just quietly plotted to himself all the things he would do once he had a body. He'd have to figure out a way to forge a paper history for his new character, his new role. Perhaps Sherlock's "brother" would be able to help with that.

ʕ•̫͡•ʕ•̫͡•ʔ•̫͡•ʔ•̫͡•ʕ•̫͡•ʔ•̫͡•ʕ•̫͡•ʕ•̫͡•ʔ•̫͡•ʔ•̫͡•ʕ•̫͡•ʔ•̫͡•ʔ

Ginny and John were both forced to go home to the Burrow early. They, like Sherlock and Draco they were told, would be taking their exams by themselves at some point in the near future. The two youngest Weasleys were provided with study guides, told "good luck", then shipped back home with their upset and clinging parents.

Ginny felt….absolutely hideous.

Her only friend…was using her? Had been trying to kill her all along. She'd poured so many hours of her first year at Hogwarts into that _stupid_ book, into Tom, and now she was faced with knowing that it was all for less than nothing.

She barely knew any of her year-mates, never bothered to get to know them because she had Tom, and no one would have been able to understand her like Tom already did. She kind of stopped talking to Luna, because Luna was weird and not at all smart and clear ad concise like Tom. She barely wrote home, because all of her free time was spent writing to Tom.

She felt like she'd been pulled out of an entirely different world to this new, darker, harsher reality where she knew everyone's faces, but nothing more. She was a stranger, and so was everyone else.

Dumbledore had explained to her family that Tom had been influencing her mind, her actions, her emotions. And, so, to treat her carefully now that she was freed from him.

And yet….the feelings she'd been struggling with all this time didn't magically go away just because they'd taken Tom from her. If anything, she felt more betrayed and hurt and cast off than ever before. _She_ 'd been taken by an evil being. _She_ 'd been dragged away to the CHAMBER OF SECRETS…so…so why did their parents insist that John come home, too? Not even the twins or Percy were forced to leave Hogwarts early.

Mum and Dad fussed over John just as much as they fussed over Ginny, and it simply wasn't fair. Nothing belonged to her. Nothing in this whole dingy world with her poor family and poorer lot in life.

Nothing except Tom, and that all was a lie, too.

John tried to be nice to her, but she just quietly ignored him. She tried not to be extremely rude about it, not as if she were determined to not speak with him. She just quietly sat and stared at her knees, her entire body completely loose and completely tense all at once. Her head was empty and she was content with keeping it that way. She didn't speak, she didn't look at anyone, she didn't move unless she had to.

Everyone shifted around her, like they were too afraid of kicking up enough of a breeze to knock her over, lest she shatter. She didn't really care. She just wanted to be left alone.

Ginny laid on her bed, remembering the first day she wrote to Tom. She'd been so happy to finally have someone to talk to.

Now, she had nobody.

Her door slowly opened. She didn't move to look up. Footsteps.

"Hey…Ginny."

John sat down beside her on the bed. She still didn't look at him. She could tell he wanted to say something. He began a few times, never getting anything out but random, incomplete word fragments. Eventually, though, they just stayed there in silence.

After a few moments, John eased himself down, beside her. He grasped her hand.

She let him.

ღ‿ღ ʕ•̫͡•ʕ*̫͡*ʕ•͓͡•ʔ-̫͡-ʕ•̫͡•ʔ*̫͡*ʔ-̫͡-ʔ ღ‿ღ

"THE BOY WHO LIVED IN A COMA"

"WEASLEY GIRL ATTACKED! DEATH EATER ACTION?"

"BOY WHO LIVED SAVES THE DAY AGAIN!"

Askaban was a horrible place to stay all around. That should just be a given. Not only were the nights cold, the food disgusting and scarce, and the guards nightmarish, but there was nothing to distract the inmates from their daily slog.

Thing is, it's just as bad for the humans who work there as it is for the criminals sent there. Sure, the dementors _guard_ the prisons, but there's more to a prison than guards, and to be perfectly honest there were even some witch and wizard guards, just incase a prisoner needed correcting or removal who they _didn't_ want kissed.

So, it was relatively easy to draw any nearby witch or wizard into a casual conversation; they were just as hungry for human interaction as the prisoners they were guarding. However, the chain gang at Askaban had soon learned the best way to glean information was to wait until several of the human staff met up and spoke amongst themselves.

"… _Harry Potter….chosen one…"_

 _"_ _No way…."_

 _"…_ _the Dark Lord?"_

 _"—_ _ossibility, but….."_

 _"_ _Boy who lived…."_

 _"…_ _.Hogwarts isn't safe…."_

 _"_ _monster….."_

 _"…_ _gonna happen?"_

Sirius strained his ears as much as he could in his human form, which, to be honest, really wasn't much. Still, something was going on. Something big. He hadn't seen these bums this excited since the last Quidditch World Cup.

Every last one of them were smuggling several snippets of newspapers in their robes, sharing with each other and passing them around like contraband. It was ridiculous, really. As far as Sirius knew, no one cared if the guards read the newspaper. His curiosity itched at him, his old Marauder self rearing his head.

What was going on?

A small clipping slipped from a guard's hand and fluttered to the ground. Sirius eyed it, then subtly reached out with his magic.

It was tricky. He wasn't good at wandless magic like Lily had been, but he'd been in Askaban for going on twelve years now…there wasn't much else for him to do but practice what little magic he could and, besides, they'd snapped his wand.

He was weak, too weak. He could barely manage the thinnest tendril of power. It took him several long minutes, maybe an hour, to get close to grasping the paper. By that time, the guards had long since walked way, but that suited him fine.

His magic swatted at the paper, sending it flying into the air. He reached out for it again, frantically, and the paper fluttered higher. Sirius pressed himself against the cold bars of his cell, the metal leaving a painful scrape on his cheek. He stretched his skinny, boney arm out as far as he could.

There!

His fingers just pinched it. Breathing a triumphant sight of relief, he sat back.

"….coma?" his own voice sounded foreign to him, as the word seemed to slip out of his mouth without his permission. Harry. It was about Harry. Of course it was about Harry. Harry, who had grown up to be so beautiful. The small article was vague, citing that no one was available for questions, and the picture was dated to be a few months old.

Harry had eyes like Lily: green and bright and intelligent. His hair was like James: wild and dark. He stood beside a young redheaded girl, and for an instant Sirius could almost swear he was looking at an old picture of James and Lily.

On Harry's other side, was a serious looking blonde boy, with a rat sitting on his shoulder.

That…

That rat…

That _rat_.

With a roar that was more animal than human, Sirius collapsed into Padfoot and darted for the bars of his cell. He was so emaciated, so withered from his stay, that it took only a few minutes of wriggling and tearing and pulling.

He was free.

A wanted criminal with no future.

But he was free.

He had to see his godson.

Had to get him away from that rat.

Had to make sure he was safe.

Had to get his revenge.

Had to kill that undeserving _filth_

How DARE that rat. How dare he get to spend his days so close to his darling pup? When Sirius was caged like an animal.

Well. It's about time he started acting like the animal everyone thought he was.


End file.
